Sure Got a Dirty Mouth
by Justine Samulet Delarge
Summary: Ever wonder how Dean developed a taste for talking dirty? Its genesis is here, in the way Sam and Dean first let their feelings for each other become physical. Sam/Dean, talking dirty, infinitely tender love, all the feels you can handle, and an actual plot that develops into a nail-biting narrative. Here there be Wincest. For mature audiences only. I mean it.
1. The First Time

**Title**: Sure Got a Dirty Mouth  
**Author**:  
**Fandom**: Supernatural  
**Pairing(s)**: Sam/Dean  
**Rating**: M  
**Warning**: Sex happens  
**Word Count**: 1000  
**Disclaimer**: I own nothing. Just for fun.  
**Summary**: Ever wonder how Dean started talking dirty?

Sure Got a Dirty Mouth

The scent of fresh orange filled the kitchen when Sam got home from school. Dean leaned over the card table, painstakingly peeling an orange in one unbroken spiral.

"Hey Sammy."

Sam swung his backpack, laden so heavily with books the straps strained under the weight, to the floor and sat in the chair kitty-corner from Dean.

"What are you doing?"

"Practicing sutures." Sam grabbed another orange out of the bowl, and ripped the peel off in great chunks, stuffing a segment into his mouth.

"On an orange."

"Yeah. You stitch the peel back. If you do it right, you can't even see the seam. So like when you get your face sliced open during a hunt for being a dumbass, I can keep you looking pretty." Sam slumped in his chair, shooting Dean a dirty look, and concentrated on eating his orange, pretending not to watch.

Dean threaded a small half-circle needle with silk from the suture kit. Sam watched out of the corner of his eye. Dean slipped the needle into the white pith and began suturing it back together. His fingers were delicate for such a masculine teenage. It only took a few minutes for Sam to soften from the verbal jab and watch Dean work, rapt, sucking on orange segments.

When he was done, a few areas showed gaps and tears, but where he had placed the sutures exactly right, the peel looked perfect, as if it had never been torn.

Sam stared at his older brother with something he would hesitate to call "awe" but Dean recognized it for what it was and smirked.

Sam leaned forward. "Show me?" Dean peeled another orange, and patiently but thoroughly, showed Sam how to do running subcutaneous sutures on a piece of citrus.

When Dean strutted through the door after his date with a local hottie, John was on the phone, hammering out the details of the lead he'd gotten on a possible demon sighting. Sam was stretched out on the threadbare sofa, bare feet hanging off the end, reading a thick book on Haitian vodoun. Dean flashed a blinding grin at Sam, who just shot him a sullen look in response and ignored him.

"Shove over, Francis." Dean pushed Sam's legs off the couch, pivoting him in place, and flopped down next to him.

"Ugh. You fucking reek of sex, dude." Sam pulled his legs up and tucked them underneath, retracting from Dean.

Dean's lips twitched, and he scratched his stomach. "How would you know, Sammy?"

"Because my brother's a fucking slut, that's how I know." Sam's face reddened. "Smell it on you. All the time." Dean tried to look him in the eye, but Sam turned his head away and refused to meet his gaze.

Dean just looked at Sam for a long moment. Watching. Noticing. Thinking. Until Sam squirmed, uncomfortable under Dean's curious scrutiny. Then he leaned closer to Sam.

"Wanna know what it's like?"

Sam dropped his book.

"No. Gross." Dean just looked at him, his green eyes glinting.

"What it feels like to stick your fingers inside a girl?" Dean couldn't believe what he was saying. Contrary to public opinion, Dean was actually more than a little shy. But the look on Sam's face was like the first hit of the best drug in the world. Dean swallowed, and pushed a little farther. "Get her wet for you?" Saying the words to Sam made him feel all shivery. Dean licked his lips, still looking at Sam, and that was all it took. Sam was caught on the hook.

"See, a girl's got lips too, kinda like this"-Dean brushed the back of his fingers against his mouth- "but down there. And you gotta push past them to get inside. And on top is the clit. It's like a tiny little dick. So yeah, they like it when you get your fingers in, but to really make 'em squirm, you gotta use your thumb to rub their clit."

Sam squirmed on the couch, ruddy patches rising on his cheeks. Dean had just meant to embarrass his little brother, but…something else was happening here. Something he didn't want to stop. It was like the air was suddenly thick between them.

"And if you really want to make a girl lose her fucking mind, you gotta lick her." Hearing those words, Sam's lips parted, the tip of his tongue darting out unconsciously. Dean's cock twitched at the sight. "They love that."

"Yeah?"

The breathiness in Sam's voice got Dean rock-hard instantly.

"Go crazy for it. Grab your hair. Make these little sounds. If you lick them real nice, you can make them beg." Sam shifted in place, and Dean just knew Sam was making room in his jeans for his cock getting hard. Hard because of Dean. What Dean was saying.

"Like…how?" Sam's face was bright red, but he didn't look away in embarrassment. The combination of innocence and boldness hit Dean like a freight train. He'd never been so hard in his life.

"Like… 'Please, god, please, fuck me.'" Dean rubbed his hand on his thigh, desperate to touch Sam, not daring to do any such thing. Sam's pupils were huge and dark.

"They… they actually say that?" Dean leaned in a little closer, swiping his tongue over his lower lip in his unconscious habit. Sam's eyes darted down to watch, transfixed.

"They do to me." Dean couldn't help the cocky smirk. It was part of his nature. And he was proud of how good he was. He waited until Sam looked up again and met his gaze. "I can make them beg, Sammy. 'C'mon… fuck me. Need you inside me. Want you to fuck me so hard.'"

Sam was trembling so hard Dean could feel the vibration through the cushions. And then he jumped up from the couch and pelted upstairs.

John poked his head in from the kitchen. "Christ, Dean, are you giving your brother a hard time again?"

Dean just grinned, and thought, _you have no idea_.

**Chapter 2**

John threw the last of their things into the trunk of the Impala, and placed the cooler full of sodas and deli sandwiches on the front seat. Sam and Dean fought too much over who got to ride shotgun, so John had mandated the front seat was for food and storage, and the back seat was for teenage boys. Particularly on cross-country trips like this one, where they would try to sleep in the car when they could to save money.

Sam threw himself into the back seat with a whoof. Dean smacked his shoulder. "Stop touching me." Sam glared at Dean. He'd been testy for weeks, ever since Dean talked him up on the couch. They both knew why, without having to say a word.

"You sure about that?" Dean's lip curled up in a slow, sweet smile, and Sam erupted in a fit of blushing.

"You boys be good, alright? Otherwise, it's gonna be a long trip." John clicked his seatbelt secure, and turned the Impala onto the endless stretch of black asphalt.

They'd been driving all day, pulling in at rest stops to stretch their legs and eat lunch, and now it had gotten dark. John drove with one elbow out the open window, cool night air blowing through, classic rock playing on the radio. Heart's Magic Man came on, and John turned the volume up.

Dean took advantage of the opportunity.

He leaned against his half-asleep brother, throwing an arm around his shoulder. "Hey, Sam."

"Mmm?" Sam said sleepily.

Dean leaned closer and whispered in Sam's ear, "That girl in Branson? Best little cocksucker I ever saw. Been meaning to tell you about it."

Sam snapped to attention, staring at Dad's face in the rear view. John's eyes were fixed on the road, paying no attention to the quiet teenagers in the back seat.

"He can't hear us over the music. It's ok." Sam swallowed hard, neck arching at the warmth of Dean's breath moving over it.

"I know you've never fucked a girl. But you ever get your dick sucked, Sammy?" Sam shook his head, hair flying into his eyes. "Didn't think so. Too bad. You're just too damn shy, Sam. You're a good-looking kid."

Sam stole a glance at Dean. "You think so?"

"Shit yeah. You're MY brother, after all."

Sam was quiet. Dean waited and held his breath. "So… what's it like?"

Dean breathed out. "A blow job? It's awesome. It's like kissing and jacking off mixed together. But they don't actually blow. Weird they call it that. Should call it a suck job. See, you kind of tuck your lips around your teeth so they don't hurt" (and Dean knew perfectly well he should say "she tucks her lips" but that's not what he said at all) and take just a little in your mouth at first and suck. And move your tongue on the bottom part. You know, on that part that feels really good when you jack off." And Dean knew Sammy jacked off, had listened to him in the night, his soft little gasps like sobs, curled up tense and miserable in his sheets, wanting to slip in next to Sam and wrap his fingers (god, his _mouth_) around Sam's cock and make him shudder and come just for him.

And Sam was shivering. Listening to his big brother talk dirty.

"Then you take it deeper. Keep your lips tight around it and move your mouth up and down and suck." Sam shivered harder. "And you move your tongue. If you practice, you can take it all the way down. They call that deep-throating." Sam's breath was coming faster now. Just from Dean's words. It was like Dean was touching Sam all over, just with his voice. Making him crazy. Dean knew the effect he had, and loved it. Knew all the signs. And Sam was flashing every single fucking one of them. Dean took a deep breath to steel himself—this could go so wrong, so quickly—and then brushed his mouth against Sam's ear.

Sam fucking _moaned_.

Dean nearly came instantly.

Their eyes met. Neither looked away. They had just crossed a thin, invisible line. No going back now. And Dean wouldn't have gone back if a horde of demons had dragged him.

And it made him even bolder.

Dean's lips ghosted over Sam's neck as he whispered, "It feels really good, Sammy. So good. Someone's mouth on your cock, all warm and wet, looking up at you, watching you watch them suck you off, taking it so good for you..." And with that, Sam shuddered, digging the nails of his left hand into Dean's thigh, and gasped, "Dean."

"Holy shit… Sammy… did you just…" Dean ran his fingers through Sam's floppy hair.

Sam buried his face into Dean's shoulder, seized by shyness. "Yeah."

"I didn't even touch you."

"Liked what you said." Sam's voice was muffled by Dean's flannel shirt.

Dean felt dizzy, euphoric. "You came in your jeans…just from me talking dirty." Sam snuggled closer.

"I'll ask Dad to find a rest stop. Get you cleaned up." Get him some relief too. He was so hard he was about to poke a hole in his jeans.

"Hey, Dean? What you said?"

"Yeah?"

Sam looked up at Dean, eyes huge, and whispered, "When we stop…will you teach me? How to suck your cock?"

And with that, Dean no longer needed to stop for relief. Just for a wet towel.


	2. Talk You Off

**Chapter 2**

John threw the last of their things into the trunk of the Impala, and placed the cooler full of sodas and deli sandwiches on the front seat. Sam and Dean fought too much over who got to ride shotgun, so John had mandated the front seat was for food and storage, and the back seat was for teenage boys. Particularly on cross-country trips like this one, where they would try to sleep in the car when they could to save money.

Sam threw himself into the back seat with a whoof. Dean smacked his shoulder. "Stop touching me." Sam glared at Dean. He'd been testy for weeks, ever since Dean talked him up on the couch. They both knew why, without having to say a word.

"You sure about that?" Dean's lip curled up in a slow, sweet smile, and Sam erupted in a fit of blushing.

"You boys be good, alright? Otherwise, it's gonna be a long trip." John clicked his seatbelt secure, and turned the Impala onto the endless stretch of black asphalt.

They'd been driving all day, pulling in at rest stops to stretch their legs and eat lunch, and now it had gotten dark. John drove with one elbow out the open window, cool night air blowing through, classic rock playing on the radio. Heart's Magic Man came on, and John turned the volume up.

Dean took advantage of the opportunity.

He leaned against his half-asleep brother, throwing an arm around his shoulder. "Hey, Sam."

"Mmm?" Sam said sleepily.

Dean leaned closer and whispered in Sam's ear, "That girl in Branson? Best little cocksucker I ever saw. Been meaning to tell you about it."

Sam snapped to attention, staring at Dad's face in the rear view. John's eyes were fixed on the road, paying no attention to the quiet teenagers in the back seat.

"He can't hear us over the music. It's ok." Sam swallowed hard, neck arching at the warmth of Dean's breath moving over it.

"I know you've never fucked a girl. But you ever get your dick sucked, Sammy?" Sam shook his head, hair flying into his eyes. "Didn't think so. Too bad. You're just too damn shy, Sam. You're a good-looking kid."

Sam stole a glance at Dean. "You think so?"

"Shit yeah. You're MY brother, after all."

Sam was quiet. Dean waited and held his breath. "So… what's it like?"

Dean breathed out. "A blow job? It's awesome. It's like kissing and jacking off mixed together. But they don't actually blow. Weird they call it that. Should call it a suck job. See, you kind of tuck your lips around your teeth so they don't hurt" (and Dean knew perfectly well he should say "she tucks her lips" but that's not what he said at all) and take just a little in your mouth at first and suck. And move your tongue on the bottom part. You know, on that part that feels really good when you jack off." And Dean knew Sammy jacked off, had listened to him in the night, his soft little gasps like sobs, curled up tense and miserable in his sheets, wanting to slip in next to Sam and wrap his fingers (god, his _mouth_) around Sam's cock and make him shudder and come just for him.

And Sam was shivering. Listening to his big brother talk dirty.

"Then you take it deeper. Keep your lips tight around it and move your mouth up and down and suck." Sam shivered harder. "And you move your tongue. If you practice, you can take it all the way down. They call that deep-throating." Sam's breath was coming faster now. Just from Dean's words. It was like Dean was touching Sam all over, just with his voice. Making him crazy. Dean knew the effect he had, and loved it. Knew all the signs. And Sam was flashing every single fucking one of them. Dean took a deep breath to steel himself—this could go so wrong, so quickly—and then brushed his mouth against Sam's ear.

Sam fucking _moaned_.

Dean nearly came instantly.

Their eyes met. Neither looked away. They had just crossed a thin, invisible line. No going back now. And Dean wouldn't have gone back if a horde of demons had dragged him.

And it made him even bolder.

Dean's lips ghosted over Sam's neck as he whispered, "It feels really good, Sammy. So good. Someone's mouth on your cock, all warm and wet, looking up at you, watching you watch them suck you off, taking it so good for you..." And with that, Sam shuddered, digging the nails of his left hand into Dean's thigh, and gasped, "Dean."

"Holy shit… Sammy… did you just…" Dean ran his fingers through Sam's floppy hair.

Sam buried his face into Dean's shoulder, seized by shyness. "Yeah."

"I didn't even touch you."

"Liked what you said." Sam's voice was muffled by Dean's flannel shirt.

Dean felt dizzy, euphoric. "You came in your jeans…just from me talking dirty." Sam snuggled closer.

"I'll ask Dad to find a rest stop. Get you cleaned up." Get him some relief too. He was so hard he was about to poke a hole in his jeans.

"Hey, Dean? What you said?"

"Yeah?"

Sam looked up at Dean, eyes huge, and whispered, "When we stop…will you teach me? How to suck your cock?"

And with that, Dean no longer needed to stop for relief. Just for a wet towel.


	3. Anything You Want

Chapter 3

John pulled the Impala into the 24-hour truck stop and diner and got out to fill the tank. "You boys run inside and grab something to eat. I'm gonna top up the oil and give her some TLC. Gimme about twenty minutes." John reached for his wallet and handed Dean some cash. "And yes, Dean, you can have pie. But not pie FOR dinner."

Dean didn't want pie. Not right then. He wanted Sam. But despite what Sam had asked for in the car, a skeevy truck stop bathroom was not how he'd pictured their first time with each other. So when Sam dragged him into the men's room and snicked the lock shut, he put a hand on Sam's shoulder and held him back from crushing him against the wall.

Sam turned pale. He took a step back, blinking back tears, and turned away.

"Oh, Christ, Sam. I didn't mean…"

"I knew you'd freak out. I just knew it." Sam swiped his sleeve against his eyes. Dean came up behind Sam and wrapped his arms around him. Sam tried to throw him off, but Dean just held him tighter.

"S'ok, Sammy. Not freaking out. Promise."

Sam teetered on the edge of breaking into sobs, chest heaving arrhythmically as he tried to breathe deep and stave off the panic that flooded him when Dean pushed him away.

"C'mere." Dean turned Sam around to face him, and brushed tears from his face. "I just… Sam, we're in a public toilet. I mean, when I pictured our first time, it wasn't like this."

Sam sniffed, a smile creasing his face. "You pictured it? You thought about it?"

Dean stepped in closer and breathed in the scent of Sam, all green apple shampoo and candy with a low note of something purely Sam. "All the time. I think about it all the time." Dean fisted his hands in Sam's flannel. "Just wanted it to be nice for you. The first time. Our first time. Not in some truck stop bathroom."

Sam's mouth trembled, and Dean was lost. Just like that.

"Dean. I can't get back in that car with you without at least…"

Dean looked around at the stark white tile, the urinals, the rust-stained sink. "Not here. Not like this. You'll always remember this, and… you deserve better."

"Jesus, Dean, I'll die. I'll fucking die." Sam grabbed Dean's hips and pulled him against him. Dean's eyes flared wide.

"Christ, you're hard enough to cut diamonds."

Sam rocked against Dean, burying his face in Dean's hair, and made one of those little sounds Dean had heard so many times in the night. His voice came soft and fragile. "You want me to beg?"

The love, the heat, the _need_ exploded in a perfect storm inside Dean. The room fell away and the only thing that existed was Sam. Sam, and a wall to press him against, and a floor to stand on. Dean gripped Sam's shirt, pinned him to the wall, and kissed him.

And God, he could kiss Sam until they both grew old. The temperature of his lips, the shape and resilience of them, the way he opened to Dean, was perfect. Like Sam had been made just for him.

Just for him.

Dean ripped his mouth away and attacked Sam's neck, licking his throat, nipping his collarbone, running his hands under Sam's shirt, muttering things, sweet filthy things he could not keep inside any longer, gorgeous dirty things that had been running around his mind for years without him consciously realizing, things that had been buried so long they roared out, demanding to be given voice.

"…give you everything, anything you want, Christ, Sam, the way you feel, make me crazy, can't fucking think…the things I'm gonna do to you, baby boy…" Sam groaned and shuddered. Dean snapped his fingers down on Sam's nipple and squeezed. Sam arched his back into the pleasure-pain and cried out softly. "Yeah, want you to beg me, Sammy, beg for my cock, beg me to fuck you, come in your mouth, come in your ass, fill you up so good… beg me to let you come, come so pretty for me… and I will, I'll make you come so hard, over and over, gonna make you scream my name…" Sam panted and moaned, sweat sheening his skin, totally giving himself over. "So fucking hot, Sammy…" Dean unbuttoned his jeans and shoved Sam's hand inside, biting the meaty part of Sam's shoulder when skin finally touched skin.

"Yeah, baby boy, that's for you, all that cock just for you, been wanting that for so long, haven't you…" Sam jacked Dean's cock, rutting against his leg, and the roaring in Dean's ears subsided enough for him to hear what Sam was repeating in a desperate flood of language: "Dean, please, can't take it anymore, please let me come, Dean, please, wanna come for you, please, I'll do anything, Dean, please…"

His brother. His beautiful, funny, brilliant, maddening brother. Begging so pretty.

Dean was the luckiest man on Earth.

Suddenly no longer ruled by his own aching need to come (_Sammy comes first_), Dean dropped to his knees to worship the impossible gift of Sam. Gripping the top of Sam's button-flys with his teeth, he yanked his head to the side hard, and popped them all free. Sam's mouth gaped, and Dean just looked up and grinned. He'd been impressed when he'd first seen that done to him. And without hesitation, even though he'd never put his mouth on another man before in his life, he drew Sam's (_beautiful, Christ, like a fucking work of art_) cock into his mouth, and showed Sam how it's done.


	4. Go Cowboys

Sam couldn't keep his eyes off Dean, sitting across the diner's narrow table from him, shoveling French fries into his mouth with the shyest smile Sam had ever seen on him. When he stuck two fingers into his mouth and sucked the salt off, entirely out of habit, Sam made a little sound.

Dean looked up. Sam's face was flushed, mouth parted, eyes locked on Dean's lips wrapped around his fingers. Dean flashed to where his mouth had just been (_wrapped around Sammy's cock in the truck stop bathroom, hard tile against his knees, stripping his own cock furiously, the helpless choked sounds his Sam made, shaking like he was going to fly apart, and then oh Christ the taste of him, that taste he'd imagined so many times, flooding his mouth_), and he turned bright red all the way to the tips of his ears.

"You're blushing." Sam took a fry from Dean's plate, having only crumbs remaining of his grilled cheese and onion rings.

"So?" Dean tried to play it cool.

"You never blush."

Dean pursed his lips, opened his mouth… "I got nothin'."

Sam focused on eating his fry, then peeked up at Dean through his thick eyelashes. ""S cute."

"What's cute?" John slid in next to Dean, smelling of WD-40 and gasoline.

Now it was Sam's turn to open his mouth and have nothing come out.

Dean came to his rescue. "Sam's got the hots for the waitress." He took a big drink of his Coke and grinned at Sam.

"Dean!" Sam knew how to play it. He widened his eyes just a little and sat up straight.

"Likes her ass. Thinks it's cute."

"Shut UP!" Sam blushed, which was a regular occurrence for him.

John took one look at Sam's stricken face and roared with laughter. "Wondered when you were gonna get there, kiddo. I was getting worried. There's a lot more to life than studying and hanging out with Dean."

Sam huffed and fussed and looked embarrassed.

John signaled to the waitress. "Can I get a cup of coffee—black—and a menu, sweetheart?"

The waitress, who did in fact have a cute ass, got that special kind of flustered that women got when a Winchester directed the full force of their charisma onto them.

John started debating with Dean about the maintenance interval for the Impala's timing chain. Sam was instantly bored, and excused himself to go wander through the massive store inside the truck stop.

Sam had never seen anything like it. It was like the Great Mall of America for truckers. In addition to the usual oils and automotive fluids, this place had everything the long-haul big rig trucker could ever need. Aisles of replacement truck parts. Utterly ridiculous trucker novelty items. Bedding. Clothes. Books and DVDs. Audio CDs. A small grocery store's worth of canned and refrigerated food. And things Sam didn't even know existed. An entire range of appliances that plugged into 12-volt cigarette lighters: pizza ovens, coffee makers, crock pots, stoves, coffee makers, little refrigerators, grills, TVs, frying pans, even popcorn poppers.

Sam wandered the aisles, taking it all in.

He stopped in his tracks in front of the bedding. "Whoa." Amongst the travel pillows and microfiber throws, there was a Dallas Cowboys Bed-In-A-Bag. Queen flat and fitted pillowcases, and matching comforter, with the logo and team name emblazoned on each.

Sam and Dean had decided that just because they didn't actually have a home, that shouldn't stop them from having a home team. So they picked the Cowboys, declared them the best team in the NFL, and watched the games whenever they got the chance.

Sam traced his finger over the thick plastic case enclosing the bedding. They only brought a couple of thin blankets with them, shipping what little they owned ahead to Bobby, and the weather had turned colder than John expected. And the heater in the Impala only worked intermittently.

"Cowboys fan?" A thin, nasal voice sounded in Sam's right ear. A trucker in his late fifties stood in the aisle, impressive gut extending over his Lone Star State belt buckle.

"Yessir." Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Me and my brother."

"Well, y'all have excellent taste."

Sam glanced back at the plastic cube of bedding. Nothing in his pockets, and he knew John would never part with any of the meager cash he had left for something as frivolous as that.

The trucker grabbed a pillow from the pile. "So, you been keeping up with the games?"

Sam lowered his head. "Nosir. We…my dad and us, we move around a lot." Sam looked out the window at the Impala. Even in the growing twilight, one could easily see into the front seat and the pile of belongings stacked there.

The trucker took that information in, looked at the boy in front of him, a little thin for his age, in torn jeans a half-inch too short for his long legs, and a faded t-shirt.

He worked at the wad of gum in his teeth. "On some kind of road trip?"

Sam blinked in gratitude for the lie. "Yeah. We're headed out to see my Uncle Bobby in South Dakota."

"Nice country." An awkward pause. "It's getting late. Where y'all staying tonight?"

Sam said nothing, embarrassment dulling his features.

The trucker looked at him evenly. "Sleeping in the car? Well, that's a fine way to save some money." Sam's face brightened. "Hell, I sleep in my car every damn day." The trucker stuck out his hand. "I'm Bud."

Sam shook it. "Sam."

"Sam. Good solid name for a boy." Bud thrust the pillow he was holding into Sam's arms. "Hold that." He grabbed up the Bed-In-A-Bag and two more pillows, and started toward the cashier. "Well, you coming or what?"

Sam followed, "Hang on, wait a minute—"

"Nope. You're gonna take it. Cold night tonight." Bud looked down at Sam. "And I know a little something about traveling on the road, kid. Makes you feel pretty lonely, just you and the dark and the road going on and on. My secret? Good pillows. Good blankets. Nice sheets. Makes a world of difference, even if you're just stretched out on a back seat."

Bud paid for everything, walked Sam out to the car with the pillows and bedding, and handed Sam the receipt. "You show that to your daddy, let him know you didn't steal it."

"He's gonna ask. Why."

Bud swallowed his gum, and stood there for a moment. "I had a boy. Little younger than you. And he died." Bud chewed his lip and breathed in hard and sharp through his nose, then gave Sam a small, sad smile. "His favorite team was the Cowboys."

Bud stood with Sam as he rearranged items in the truck and back seat. The larger items that had been underfoot, Sam moved to the trunk, with the room he made by pulling out all the bags of clothing and towels. Those, he laid out on top of the smaller items, until he had made a nest of soft items just about even with the back seat.

Bud said, "Hold on just a minute." He walked to his rig carrying his new pillow, moving remarkably fast for such a big man, and returned with something large and blue in his arms. "Here. Y'all need this more than I do." It was a thick rectangular piece of foam. He helped Sam fold it and arrange it across the entire back seat and bags of clothing and all, so it made a soft, smooth, even surface. "Yeah. That's what I'm talkin' about. It'll almost be like sleeping in a real bed, kid." Bud glanced at his watch. "Hey, I'm running a little behind. Time to head out. Y'all take care of each other, alright?"

Sam was seized with a strong desire to hug the man, but thought maybe it wasn't a good idea.

And then he did it anyway.

Sam tucked the fitted sheet around everything and smoothed it down, spread the flat sheet on top of that, and laid down the Dallas Blue and white comforter on top. The two pillows, he tucked into the pillowcases and propped them against the far door (making sure the door was good and locked).

By the time John had finished his burger and Dean had convinced him that the timing chain wasn't quite ready to be replaced, Sam had finished putting it all together.

Dean just stared, eyes wide, at the fully decked out Dallas Cowboys bed now part of the Impala, while Sam explained everything in a breathless voice.

Once John realized 1) the items were purchased legitimately 2) the man was not a pedophile and 3) he'd driven off 10 minutes earlier, he softened.

"That's actually really nice, there, Sam. I should have thought of that." John looked at the bed, all set up and ready to go, and the light dancing across his youngest son's face, the surprised happiness and pride on the face of his eldest, and suddenly blinked his eyes furiously a few times. "You two are going to sleep nice tonight." He ruffled Sam's hair. "Good job, son."

John may not have noticed how Sam's face blossomed under the warmth of his approval and praise.

But Dean did.

John had them change out of their jeans into their sweatpants (which Sam had wisely not used as padding, but had kept out where they could easily get to them). Sam insisted that Dean get in first, pulling the corner of the sheet and comforter down for him, standing outside to take his shoes, one at a time, beaming as Dean crawled between the sheets and laid his head down on the brand-new pillow. Sam slipped Dean's sneakers into the front seat, sat on the edge and tugged his own shoes off, then laughed as Dean grabbed him by the armpits and hauled him backwards into the car.

Dean threw the bedding over Sam. They both snuggled down, reveling in the softness, warmth, and general Cowboy-ness of the entire setup.

"You nice and warm?" John's face was soft, and the love in his voice was unmistakable.

Sam and Dean nodded in unison.

"Mind if I play a little music?"

"Nope." Dean spoke for both of them.

John flipped through the box of tapes, and popped in Led Zeppelin II, turned it on low. Whole Lotta Love came through the speakers. To Sam and Dean Winchester, weaned on their father's love for 70s rock, it might as well have been a lullaby.

As the Impala rumbled down the road, John tapping his fingers in time to the music, Dean pulled Sam against him, a gangly, floppy haired little spoon to his big spoon. "This is awesome, Sammy."

Sam snuggled into Dean, drawing his arm around his waist. He sniffed once. Then again.

"You ok? Sammy?"

Sam wiped his eyes. "Best day of my life."

Dean kissed the back of Sam's neck, surreptitious, sheltered from the eyes of his father by their position and the dark. "Me too."

His lips remained on Sam's skin, breathing warmth over the little hairs along Sam's neck, until Sam shivered. "Day's not over yet, Sammy."

Dean's right hand settled on top of Sam's hip. His mouth moved to right behind Sam's ear. "Can you be quiet?"

Sam nodded.

"I mean, really quiet. Not make a sound."

Sam nodded again, determined to prove he could by not even saying a word in response.

Dean whispered, "You real sure? 'Cause I want to make you come again."

Sam released a soft, shuddering breath. Dean's fingers drew tiny circles along Sam's thigh. "I really liked it. Back there. Making you come."

Sam panted. Dean moved his fingers lower along Sam's thigh, getting closer.

Dean's lips right on the soft whorl of Sam's ear. "Did you like it? Coming for me?" What Is and What Should Never Be played over the hiss of the car heater, hiding the sound of his voice.

Sam drew Dean's hand up, placed his fingers on his lips, mouthed, "Yes."

Dean shivered at the unexpected sensuality of it.

"You want to come for me again?"

Sam drew Dean's index finger into his mouth, sucked on it, nodded, "Yes."

"Fuck, Sam. You're so…" A soft gasp as Sam sucked Dean's finger in deeper, all the way to the base. "When I get you to a real bed with a door that locks, baby boy…"

At that, Sam gasped, arching his back, pressing the curve of his ass against Dean's crotch.

"Shhh… keep still."

Sam quivered.

"Dad's a foot in front of us. I can't make you come until you keep real quiet and still."

Sam sank his teeth into the brand-new pillow.

"You can do it," Dean whispered. "And when I get you all alone, I promise, Sam. You can make all the noise you want."

Sam carefully turned in place, pressed his mouth to Dean's ear. "You promise?"

Dean nodded.

"I'm scared I'm gonna scream."

The thought of that, of his sweet baby brother so wrung out by the pleasure Dean was giving him that he couldn't stop himself from screaming, nearly made Dean come on the spot.

He turned Sam back around to his original position, pressed his mouth to Sam's ear. "Gonna make you scream, baby boy. That's a promise. But right now, you gotta stay quiet for me. Ok?"

Sam sucked in a deep breath, then nodded.

"You need to make a little noise, you bury your face in the pillow."

The Lemon Song started to play. Dean sat up. "Hey, dad, can you turn it up? We like this song."

John smiled at the thought that his boys loved the music of his youth as much as he did, and turned up the volume.

The thing about sweatpants is the elastic band makes them very easy to pull down. Not always good in gym class, but ideal when you're trying to surreptitiously jack off your little brother in the back seat of a car while your dad is driving.

Dean tugged Sam's sweatpants down underneath the covers, and inhaled sharply when he realized that Sam wasn't wearing underwear. "Sammy," he breathed, wrapping his hand around Sam's hard cock. Sam's hand scrabbled in front of him, found what he was searching for, pulled out a small bottle of lotion. "You plan this all out?" Dean asked. Sam shook his head no.

Dean quietly squeezed a little lotion into the palm of his hand, slipped it back under the covers and squeezed Sam's cock.

Sam dug his teeth into the meaty part of his hand, fighting for control.

"Don't move. Don't make a sound." Dean slid his fist up and down, so slowly, glorying in how it made Sam shake all over. "Christ. So sensitive. Aren't you." His soft whisper was masked by the music, Robert Plant moaning, "Squeeze me baby, 'till the juice runs down my leg."

"Fuck, Sam. Couldn't have picked a better song if I tried." Sam buried his face in the pillow, trying desperately to hold still, as Dean worked his cock, slowly, agonizingly slowly, totally in control. "Keep still, Sam. Doing so good."

The rush of it, of saying sweet, dirty things in Sam's ear and Sam having to keep quiet but going crazy for it, of touching Sam's cock and Sam having to keep still but going out of his fucking mind for it, was dizzying.

"Know the first thing I'm gonna do to you when I get you all alone, sweetheart?" Another shiver. Sammy liked pet names. So good to know. "Gonna take your clothes off, lay you down, spread you wide open…" Sam panted into the pillow, body rigid, stomach quivering, as Dean jacked his cock nice and slow, keeping his motions as non-suspicious as he possibly could. "…and I'm gonna eat your ass out like a girl."

Sam sucked in a breath, and then made a muffled, choked groan into the pillow, spilling all over Dean's hand.

"Fuck. Sammy. Love you so much..." Sam had barely finished coming when Dean frantically tugged down his sweatpants and rubbed his cock against the smooth curve of Sam's ass once, twice, and then he was coming thick and wet against him, biting down hard on Sam's upper back muscle, hard enough to leave marks that Sam would feel for days.

They lay there, trying to catch their breath without revealing they had lost it in the first place, Dean's palm pressed possessively against Sam's still-twitching abdomen, Sam's head thrown back, the curve of his neck on Dean's shoulder. Then Dean chuckled. "Looks like we messed up your brand-new sheets."

Sam pressed Dean's hand to his lips. "Best day of my life."


	5. Just Getting Warmed Up

Sorry for the trouble posting this chapter! I got it sorted out now.

Sure Got a Dirty Mouth Chapter 5:

The Impala rumbled up the long path to Bobby's house, headlights illuminating the way. Bobby stood in the doorway holding something in his hands.

Sam and Dean tumbled out of the back seat, stiff and half-groggy, breath visible in the cold air. John stretched out his long legs, clambered from the front seat, and bent over, stretching out his lower back.

He threw his arms around the shoulders of his sons, one on each side, and they walked to the front door.

Bobby thrust a warm "World's Best Teacher" mug into John's hand, and held out two more to the boys. "Thought you could use this." John sniffed at the contents. Warm vapor, all apple, butter and cinnamon, ghosted over his mouth. "My take on Hot Buttered Rum. 'Cept with Bourbon instead of rum. And some cider. And spices. Hell, it's nothing like Hot Buttered Rum 'cept that it's hot and buttered."

Dean took a sip, expecting a virgin version, and blinked at the unanticipated kick. Sam followed Dean's lead, and was also surprised at the alcohol.

John raised an eyebrow at Bobby.

"What?" Bobby growled. "After all these boys been through, all the hunts they been on, you think they're too young for a little hooch?"

John could not fault that logic.

Bobby smacked John on the shoulder. "Now get your asses inside, pronto. Letting all the warm air out." As Sam and Dean stepped past him and entered his home, he ruffled their hair. "Good to see you kids again."

Sam and Dean sat on the worn sofa in front of the fire, knees pressed together, hands wrapped around the heated mugs, letting the warmth penetrate their bodies from inside and out. It was their second mug each, at the insistence of Bobby and the amused tolerance of John, and the alcohol wormed through their veins, heating them up every bit as much as the fire.

Through the open doorway to their left, John and Bobby stood bent over a large table in the kitchen, John poking an insistent finger at a large map while Bobby flipped through a cracked and worn leather-bound tome so old the boys could smell the musty scent from where they were.

Dean nudged Sam with his shoulder. "Finally."

"What?" Sam rubbed his chapped lips together.

"You stopped shivering. Finally. You were shivering the whole day."

Sam just shrugged. Which broke Dean's heart. Sam shouldn't have to think that being bone-shakingly cold for days was just a regular thing.

But it was.

"Warming up now, Sammy?"

Sam blew out his breath over Bobby's concoction of spiced cider and alcohol, driving a puff of warm vapor up over his nose and mouth. "Yeah. Feels good."

Dean watched John and Bobby argue over what to do next. Then he threw his arm around Sam and adopting body language that said he was simply talking in a light, conversational tone, said, "Know what I want to do, Sammy? Take you to a beach. Out in California. Sneak onto one of those big old private beaches. No one around but us."

Sam sipped his drink, eyes darting up to look at Dean over the rim of the mug.

Dean continued. "Real hot day. Middle of July. Bring a cooler full of ice and bottles of beer. One of those huge beach blankets. Lay down, just you and me, and let the sun soak in until we're so hot we can't stand it."

Sam closed his eyes, letting Dean's words wash over him. This little encouragement bolstered Dean's confidence.

"Yeah. Close your eyes. The heat from the fire? That's the sun on your skin." Dean closed his own eyes, caught up in the moment every bit as much as Sam, who was hanging on his every word.

"Just lay in the sun, listening to the waves, until we were all hot and sweaty, and then run into the water."

Dean opened his eyes, to make sure John and Bobby weren't standing over them, horrified. They weren't.

"Then we'd stand and let the waves come in over our feet. I'd stand behind you, put my arms around you, hold you steady, you know, when the waves went back out." Sam and Dean had been to the beach exactly once, and Sam got dizzy and fell over every time the waves rushed back over his bare feet. "Kiss the back of your neck. Lick the salt off your skin."

Sam's eyes flashed open, pupils dilated. The energy that crackled between the two of them was palpable.

Sam glanced over at John and Bobby, completely caught up in their own thing, but nonetheless absolutely able to see the two boys on the couch.

He turned his huge hazel eyes back to Dean. "Then what?"

Dean felt the hairs on the back of his arms raise up.

"Then… then I'd race you back to the blanket. And I'd win."

"Hah."

"And I'd win," Dean insisted. "Break out a couple of beers." Dean brushed a stray lock of hair out of Sam's face. "And I'd watch you drink yours. Watch your mouth wrap around the neck of the bottle."

Sam bit his lower lip.

"Watch you suck on it. Get hard watching you. Think of feeding you my cock, just like that."

A small whimper escaped Sam's lips.

"You like that?" This phrase, such a porn cliché, was spoken here with honest purpose. Dean needed to know, know that Sam liked what he was doing, liked him telling him what he wanted to do to him, liked the idea of sucking Dean's cock.

"Yeah."

"Want me to stand over you, pull my shorts down, pull that bottle out of your mouth and put my cock there instead?"

Sam dug his fingers into the fabric of the couch, making a small strangled sound.

Dean stared at the effect his words were having on his Sammy.

"Bet you do. Bet you can just feel it, can't you, my cock sliding into your mouth, all salty from the water, stretching your mouth around it, sucking on it…"

Sam licked his lips unconsciously. "Dean. Want to."

"Yeah?" Dean fought to keep his composure. "Then I'd pull out and put the beer bottle in your mouth again, make you drink. Put my cock back in your mouth before you swallowed, so I could feel that cold beer on the head of my dick." Dean could almost feel it, the prickly bubbles on his sensitive flesh, the ice-cold liquid a shocking contrast to the soft heat of Sam's mouth.

Sam nearly dropped his mug.

"Yeah. You'd do that for me. Wouldn't you, Sammy. Suck my cock in broad daylight on a beach."

Sam put his hand on Dean's thigh, glancing toward the kitchen nervously. They were still deeply engrossed in their planning.

"I'd do anything. Anything you want."

Dean dared to lean closer, just for a moment, and let his mouth brush over Sam's ear. "I know you would, baby boy."

Sam stifled a groan. "Dean." His cheeks were flushed vivid red.

"How're you boys doing in there?" John's voice resounded through the hard wood interior of Bobby's house like a Sunday preacher in church.

Sam's face froze, stricken. Dean called out, "Great. We're just getting warmed up."

"Holler if you need anything." Bobby interjected.

"Sam. Turn toward me." Sam shifted so he faced Dean, turning away from the kitchen. Dean knew he had a much better poker face to begin with, and after all, he was the one driving his little brother crazy with his dirty talk.

"Where were we? Oh, yeah. You were sucking my cock on the beach."

Sam looked at Dean like a starving man eyeing a Vegas buffet. His expression was shockingly open and easy for Dean to read: Sam had never wanted anything more in his life than to take Dean's cock into his mouth. Right then and there, if Dean would let him. He'd accept being ostracized from his father, from Bobby, from everyone. If Dean would just let him.

Sam wanted it that much. Wanted him.

Dean gnawed on his lower lip in that unconscious habit he had.

"Can you feel it, Sam? The sun beating down on you? My dick just sliding into your mouth?"

Sam nodded, swallowing on empty air.

"You working your mouth on me. Licking my cock, sucking on it, seeing how deep you can take it down your throat. Making me come with your mouth. You want that, don't you, Sammy?"

Dean needed to hear it. Needed to see it and hear it and feel it, every second. How much Sam wanted it. Wanted him.

Sam opened his mouth, and Dean expected a wordless plea, or "Dean, please," or "Yeah."

What he said was, "When are you going to stop teasing me and fucking do it?"

Dean blinked, astonished.

Sam's jaw was tight. "You know I want it. You know how bad I want to do that."

Sam's body was hard, muscles tight, quivering slightly all over like a guitar string that had been plucked.

"Dean. I want it so bad it hurts. It actually physically hurts." Sam's voice was wrecked. "And they're here, and we can't, and Dean, it fucking hurts." He had tears in his eyes.

Dean suddenly felt terrible. He knew Sam was sensitive, both emotionally and physically (and Christ, he couldn't wait until he got Sammy alone and finally got to see how exquisitely sensitive and responsive he was), but he'd underestimated both.

"Sorry. I'm sorry, Sam." And Dean's heart just cracked open because Sammy started to cry, shivering and sniffling. "I'm sorry." Dean dragged Sam into his arms, where Sam fell apart, shuddering with frustration and anguish.

"Sam? You ok?" John was suddenly right there, concerned and poised for action, as though he was attuned to the scent of his sons' tears.

Dean stroked Sam's hair as he sobbed on his shoulder. "It's just… you know." Dean knew John would interpret that to mean the whole wealth of what had just happened. Uprooting Sam yet again, tearing him away from the friends that he, being such a sweet and loving boy, could not help but make despite John's warnings not to get too attached again because he knew they wouldn't be staying long.

John's face darkened, twisting with guilt and self-recrimination. "I'm so sorry, Sam." He sat with them, hand on Sam's back, until Sam's tears subsided. "Been a long trip for you boys, and a long day. How about you go upstairs to sleep while Bobby and I finish up?"

Sam made a face into Dean's shoulder. Neither of them were looking forward to sleeping on the twin beds crammed into the cluttered bedroom John would be sleeping in.

Bobby called out from the kitchen, "Hey, I cleared out my second office for you boys. So you got your own room this time." Sam raised his tear-stained face to Dean's, eyes wide with surprise. "Got rid of those crusty old twin beds, too. Y'all got too tall for that. All's I could find was a queen-sized bed, though. Figured you two wouldn't fuss about sharing."

Sam raced to the car to get the queen-sized Cowboys bedding, despite the fact that Bobby had already made up their bed. Bobby understood boys and sports teams, though, so he wasn't offended in the least.

Dean helped Sam re-make the bed and settle the pillows into place, watching how Sam's face lit up, as though this one thing made Sam feel like he had some kind of home.

"Alright, you two. Brush your teeth and get into bed. And I expect you two to stay in there all night, ok? No getting up in the middle of the night and ransacking my library, Sam." Bobby's voice was stern, with a ribbon of laughter running through it.

"Nosir. I promise. We'll stay in bed all night." How Sam managed to say that with a straight face, Dean couldn't imagine.

The second Bobby's feet hit the landing at the base of the stairs, Sam's knees hit the rag rug next to the bed, tugging frantically at Dean's belt buckle, pulling out Dean's cock. The feel of Sam's smooth fingers made Dean suck in a breath over his teeth.

Sam looked up at Dean with wide eyes. "I don't know how."

Sam was going to be the death of him, Dean thought. "S'ok, baby boy. I'll talk you through it."

Sam sat up on his heels, always the eager pupil.

"Main thing? Be real careful with your teeth. Don't let 'em scrape." Sam nodded, and Dean could practically hear the pen inside Sam's head scratch across paper. "But it's you, Sam. I'm gonna love it."

Sam blinked his eyes slowly and opened them again, like a cat saying I love and trust you.

Dean held his cock in his right hand and rubbed the head, slick with precum, over Sam's lips, teasing him, because he couldn't help himself.

"Dean. Want it."

Dean shivered. This was not going to take long. Not long at all. "Gonna give it to you. I promised." Dean pressed his thumb alongside Sam's jaw.

Sam was already shaking.

"You want me to tell you what to do? Or you want to just do it all on your own?"

Sam hated being told what to do. Hated it. How many times had he heard Sam spit, "I'm not stupid, Dean. I can figure it out on my own."?

But Sam was full of surprises today. Kneeling before Dean, he whispered, "Tell me what to do."

Dean squeezed the base of his cock hard, desperate to not come all over Sam's face—at least not so soon. Though he filed away that delicious mental image for later use.

"Open your mouth, Sammy."

Sam did.

Dean pressed the head of his cock to Sam's lips. "Lick it. Just the tip." The first swipe of his little brother's tongue made Dean shiver and curse, and pull back.

"Did I do it wrong?" Sam looked stricken.

"Fuck, no. No. You did it so good. I'm just…I'm trying not to come so soon."

Sam looked legitimately confused. "Why? I want to make you come a bunch of times tonight."

And again, Dean had to squeeze the base of his cock so as not to blow his load all over Sam's sweet, upturned face.

"Christ, I love you, Sam." Dean ran his fingers through Sam's hair. "Fucking LOVE you."

Sam bounced on his heels impatiently and gripped Dean's thighs. "Dean. Please." Sam blushed, eyes flickering to the floor for a moment, then back up to meet Dean's gaze. "Want you to come in my mouth."

And the expression on Dean's face told Sam that he was not the only Winchester boy who really, really loved it when his brother talked dirty to him.

Dean slid his cock into Sam's willing mouth, with a groan that rose from his very bones. "So beautiful. Fuck. Sammy. Wish I could take a picture of that."

Sam looked up at Dean, mouth full of cock, and mumbled, "Next time."

And that was it. Dean completely lost all control. He trembled and spasmed and pumped into Sam's mouth, Sam clumsily sucking and trying to keep his teeth clear, Dean not caring, not caring at all, because this was the best blow job he'd ever had, Sammy on his knees for him begging for him to come in his mouth, promising to make him come over and over, fucking saying OK to Dean taking pictures of him doing it, and how Dean got so lucky as to have everything he ever loved, more sweetness and beauty and amazingness than he deserved AND every dirty fantasy he'd ever had in the body of the same person, he'd never understand.

With a bitten-down curse and a low, flowing chant of "Sam…Sam….Sam…," Dean came harder than he'd ever come before, spilling into Sam's mouth. When the bitter-salty fluid hit Sam's tongue, he fucking moaned like he'd been dying to taste Dean's come for years. He dug his fingers into Dean's hips, his back curling, swallowing it all, wrapping his mouth tighter and sucking hard—which sent Dean's aftershocks into a whole new orgasm, something he didn't even know was possible. Another load, nearly as big as the first, spurted into Sam's mouth. Sam's fingers scrabbled at Dean, as he shook and moaned on his big brother's cock.

"Sam. Christ. Sam." Dean was reduced to single-syllable words. Sam was reduced to twitching and moans.

Dean dropped to his knees alongside Sam and thrust his hand inside his jeans, intending to ease his Sammy's aching need. But…"Fuck. You came? Just from…"

Sam threw his arms around Dean and pressed his mouth to his throat. "Just from my mouth on you."

Dean stared at Sam's face, with an expression so intense it almost scared Sam. Then he took Sam's face in his hands and kissed him. Soft, searching, a claim as much as a kiss.

Sam answered the claim, melting into Dean, opening to him.

After a long moment, Dean broke the kiss. "Hey. Back at that truck stop. I made you a promise."

"_Know the first thing I'm gonna do to you when I get you all alone, sweetheart? Gonna take your clothes off, lay you down, spread you wide open… and I'm gonna eat your ass out like a girl." _

Sam blinked, then remembered. The color rose in his cheeks.

Dean pulled Sam to his unsteady feet, and tugged his t-shirt off, then unbuttoned Sam's jeans. He was already half-hard, with the miraculously short refractive period enjoyed by teenagers. "You thought maybe I forgot? I always keep my promises, baby boy."


	6. I Think We're Alone Now

"Wait." Sam stopped Dean from tugging down his jeans. "Hold on." Sam had preternaturally keen hearing, because sure enough, there were heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

Sam quickly pulled his shirt back on.

"Inside out!" Dean whispered. Sam stared in horror, then quickly ripped it off and put it back on right side out.

A gentle rap at the door. "You awake?"

"Yep!" Dean called out casually, sitting on the edge of the bed, untying his boots.

Sam tried to act casual, and failed miserably. Dean smacked him on the shoulder hard. Right then, John swung open the door—and saw Sam glaring at Dean with his epic bitch face, and Dean not even trying to hide the smirk on his face.

It was a perfectly normal tableau.

"Me and Bobby are gonna ride into town and pick up something." Dean perked up, instantly interested in the strategy of the hunt. "I'll tell you all about it tomorrow, Dean. You two going to be ok by yourselves?"

Dean and Sam stared at each other, both thinking, _Was this a trick question_?

"Er, yeah, Dad." Sam couldn't quite believe their luck.

"And Dean, stop giving your brother a hard time."

Sam bit his lip, trying desperately to stifle his laughter.

Dean stared at John with a shocked, innocent expression. "What?"

"You know."

Dean looked at Sam, palms raised in supplication, playing it up good. "What'd I do?"

"Dean. Be nice to your brother."

"Yeah, Dean." Sam could smirk every bit as well as Dean. "Be nice to your brother."

"Oh, I'll be real nice to Sammy." Dean turned to John and practically batted his eyelashes. "I'll be so good."

"Don't be a smartass, Dean. Mind me."

Dean put on his serious face. "Yessir."

"And Sam? Don't get your brother going."

Sam practically choked. "Sir?"

"You know. Don't get him worked up."

Now it was Dean's turn to try to repress laughter, turning toward the duffle bag on the floor to hide his face.

"Nosir. I'll be good."

"Alright. There's sandwich stuff in the fridge if you want a snack." He ruffled Sam's hair, which Sam hated when anyone but Dean did, but tolerated. "And we'll be gone for a few hours, so don't wait up."

Sam and Dean stood in the living room watching the taillights of Bobby's truck dwindle into tiny dots of light on the road.

"Are they really…"

"Gone?"

They stood stock-still, waiting. The lights disappeared, and did not reappear.

"Yeah. They're really gone."

Sam and Dean stood in the living room, and looked at each other. Then, as one, they burst into motion and raced each other up the stairs to their room.

Sam peeled off his t-shirt, breathless, laughing. Dean tackled him onto the bed, tickling him, making Sam spasm and laugh helplessly until he squeaked (which always made Dean's heart grow three sizes at once just like the Grinch).

"Get off me!"

"Oh, that's not what you want, little brother." Dean straddled Sam, pinning him down, and tickled Sam's taut, quivering stomach.

"Cut it out!" Sam batted away Dean's hands, but Dean redoubled his attack.

"Say please."

Sam writhed, tears streaming down his face, laughing so hard his face was bright red. "Off… off…"

Dean dug his fingers into Sam's sides and worked them up underneath his arms. Sam flailed and kicked and finally, finally said, "I give. I give. Please."

Dean sat back, staring down at Sam, fingers hovering over his stomach. "Please what?"

Sam gasped, trying to catch his breath. "No more. No more tickling."

"What'll you do if I stop?"

Sam panted beneath Dean, eyes going heavy with intent. Slowly, deliberately, he laid back and stretched both arms overhead, crossing them at the wrist. He bit his lip, looking up at Dean, and said, "Anything."

Dean's cock twitched and bucked, and Sam's, right beneath him, answered in kind.

Dean unbuttoned Sam's jeans. "I do have that promise to keep."

"Yeah." Sam's voice was achingly soft.

"Two, actually."

Sam cocked his head, like a confused puppy.

"First, I promised to take all your clothes off and eat your ass out like a girl."

Sam arched his back. He looked so beautiful, so eager, that Dean could hardly contain himself.

"And second? I promised I'd make you scream."

Dean peeled Sam's jeans off, stripped him of his socks, slowly worked his boxers off. He stood at the foot of the bed and removed his shirt.

Sam's eyes went wide, and he propped himself up on his elbows to watch. Dean blushed a little at first, but then went with it remarkably quickly, giving Sam a coy glance as he unbuttoned his jeans, watched Sam lick his lips involuntarily, pulled them down slowly, giving his Sammy a little show.

"Fuck. Dean. You're so…"

"What?"

Sam shook his head. "Beautiful."

Naked, Dean crawled up and pushed Sam down gently onto his back. "You're the one who's beautiful, Sammy." He couldn't keep his eyes off his little brother, all lines of just-developing muscle, soft skin, those incredible eyes, and a cock, fuck, a cock that the Greek gods would envy. And Sam was just getting started.

"Lay back, Sammy. You're gonna love this. Feels so good."

Sam let his head fall back. Then he sat up. "How do you know?"

Dean rolled his head in that funny little circle he made instead of saying duh. "Ronda Hurley."

Sam pursed his lips in that funny little duckface he made instead of saying fair enough.

Dean grazed his fingertips along Sam's body, feeling every line and curve. He dropped lower, settled between Sam's thighs, exhaling a warm puff of breath over Sam's cock, making it twitch.

Dean had gotten a taste for talking to Sam, and he liked it. He tapped Sam's thigh. "Open."

Sam complied, stretching his legs apart for Dean.

"Wider."

Sam obeyed instantly.

"Fuck. Why don't you take orders like this when we're training?"

"You gonna lick my ass on the obstacle course if I do?"

Dean bit down on Sam's inner thigh. "Don't tempt me, baby boy."

Sam gasped. "You do stuff like this, I'll take any order you give me."

Dean filed that away for future fucking reference. That could make training real interesting.

Dean tipped Sam's hips up, pushing his thighs back. Sam blushed furiously.

"Shhh… you look fucking awesome like this. Christ."

Dean stared down at his little brother, spread open for him, his cock frantically hard and twitching on his flat little belly, ass exposed, his sweet pink hole just…there. Waiting.

Dean couldn't wait any longer. He flicked his tongue across it.

Sam jumped.

"Hold still, Sammy. Don't make me tie you up." Dean thought about that for a moment. "Strike that. Make me tie you up."

Sam stared up at him, panting. "Again."

"Hey, who's giving the orders here?"

"Do it again." Sam's pupils were blown wide.

Dean laughed. "Bossy little bitch." And he did it again.

This time, he held Sam down hard, pressing his palms against his thighs. Sam gasped, and bit down on his lip.

""S'ok. You can make all the noise you want."

Sam looked startled. "I forgot."

Dean grabbed one of the Cowboys pillows and stuffed it under Sam's hips, then settled in and made himself comfortable between Sam's legs. "Gonna be here for a while, baby boy."

Sam moaned.

Dean licked another stripe, slow and wet. Sam's thighs shook under Dean's hands. "Oh god. Oh god."

Dean brushed his lips against Sam's inner thigh. "There you go, sweetheart. Tell me when it feels good."

He lapped at Sam's tight pink ring, slow curls of his tongue, letting it dig in a little each time as it passed over the center, then flicked the tip against the center, pressed it there, held it steady.

Sam made a sound that started off as a word and disintegrated into a drawn-out moan.

Dean tightened his tongue muscle and pressed, breaching the outer ring. Sam spasmed beneath him, crying out.

"That feel good?"

"Everything you do feels good," Sam panted. "But Christ. That. Fuck. Dean."

Dean moved his hands down to Sam's ass cheeks, pulled them apart. Sam was too far gone to blush, instead gripping the backs of his knees and holding his thighs back.

He pressed his thumbs on either side of Sam's sphincter, and gently pulled them apart. "Come on, baby. Let me in."

A few more long, slow drags of his tongue, and Sam started making the sweetest sounds Dean had ever heard. Little pants, moans, low guttural sounds punched out of him. And how he moved… rolling his hips, fucking up into Dean's tongue, completely without shame or modesty, like he didn't even know these concepts existed. Completely guileless and open, completely lost in the pleasure of giving himself over to Dean in the most intimate way possible.

Dean couldn't help making sounds himself, moaning as Sam opened to him, his tongue sliding over the rougher texture of the outer ring into the impossibly soft, silken texture of the flesh beneath. "So good," he murmured. "Feel so good, Sam."

Sam was the one writhing beneath him, but suddenly Dean was the desperate one. He wanted more, wanted to work his tongue as deep inside Sam as humanly possible. He buried his face between Sam's ass cheeks, sucking on his sweet pink rim. Sam cried out, his voice rough with urgency. "Dean. Oh my fucking god. Fucking hell. Do it. Fucking do it." Sam's voice spurred Dean on, driving his tongue deeper inside Sam, licking inside him, curling and twining and tasting him, licking him open, and mother of all that's holy, somehow Sam tasted good, somehow Dean hurting himself trying to jam his tongue all the way up his little brother's ass tasted so fucking good, felt so silky soft on his tongue, and no one, fucking no one had ever done that to Sammy before, and Dean would make damn sure no one other than him ever would, just him. Only him.

"Yes. Yes. Yes." Sam chanted,

"Go on, Sammy. Make as much noise as you want to." Sam began making wordless cries, tossing his head from side to side, hands scrabbling at the comforter. "You want more? Want me to tongue fuck you some more, baby boy? You like it?"

"Don't stop. Christ. Please don't stop. Please. Dean. More."

Dean sealed his mouth over Sam and sucked hard, stabbing his tongue inside him again and again, driving a high-pitched cry out of his writhing, sweating little brother. Then he pulled his mouth away, earning a soft sound of protest from Sam, which was quickly silenced when he pressed the tip of his index finger against the wet rim of muscle.

"You thought that felt good? Oh, the things I'm gonna do to you."

Sam shuddered underneath him. He really was every bit as responsive as Dean had hoped in the long, dark nights of repressed desire—and so much more. Sam was a drug, and Dean was already a hopeless addict.

Dean pressed the tip of his finger inside, penetrating the outer ring easily, all slick with saliva and yielding, prepared by Dean's talented tongue.

"This what you want?"

Sam half-sat up, and fell back down, uttering sounds now. Just sounds. He arched his back, driving himself down on Dean's finger. Dean cursed as Sam opened to him, taking his finger past the second ring of muscle.

When Sam felt Dean's finger slip all the way inside him, he went crazy, raising his hips and fucking himself down over and over, practically sobbing, loud, so loud, spreading his legs as wide as he could, hands roaming over his chest, one pinching his nipple, the other darting into his mouth, sucking on his own fingers.

He was like a force of nature, writhing and crying out over and over, forming words now. "Dean" and "please" and "want to come for you" and "Christ please fuck me" and it was all Dean could do to not spit on his hand and slick up his cock and just fuck Sam stupid.

But he promised himself he wouldn't do that. Not yet. Not until Sam was of age. Everything else, hell yes. But not that. Wanted to wait. Do it right. So long as he could hold out that long…

So Dean fucked his little brother with his index finger, and licked a broad stripe along the underside of Sam's cock, making him wail. "You wanna come, Sammy?"

Sam lifted his head, looked Dean straight in the eyes. "God please Dean please Dean fuck gonna die please Dean oh god please…"

"Come on, baby boy. Gonna make you come for me. As loud as you wanna be. No one's around to hear." And Dean sealed his mouth over the head of Sam's achingly hard cock and sucked, driving down and pulling back, sucking hard, licking along the sensitive spot where the head meets the shaft, and curled his index finger and pressed up…and Sam screamed, arched his back and bucked his hips up as he fell apart for his brother, and screamed again, a fierce cry ripped from the very core of him like a declaration, coming in violent spurts that hit the back of Dean's throat so hard it made him cough.

But he swallowed it. Every drop.

Sam whimpered, spasming again and again, emptying into Dean's mouth. And Dean took it all. "Taste so good, Sam." He licked into the pulsing slit, making Sam shudder and cry out, releasing a last weak flood of come. "So fucking good."

Dean crawled up, pressing his body against Sam, sealing his mouth around Sam's… and Sam opened to him, licking the taste of himself out of his brother's mouth, moaning at the taste of it, licking along the seam of Dean's lips, licking deep into his mouth, and that was it, that was fucking it. Dean rubbed his cock against Sam's thigh, grinding down against him hard, fucking his mouth with his tongue, hand wrapped in Sam's hair hard enough to make him gasp into Dean's mouth, and that was fucking it.

He made a surprised sound at the force of his orgasm, which hit him like a runaway train and slammed him past all rational thought, just his body shaking apart with pleasure too sharp to bear, to keen to endure, and now it was Dean screaming, howling with the overwhelming force of it, Sam clutching his shoulders, staring up at him in awe and disbelief.

Dean must have actually lost consciousness, because he came to with Sam pushing gently at his shoulders. "Dean? Dean."

Dean pushed himself off and collapsed at Sam's side."Mmph."

Sam propped himself up on one arm and lightly traced little patterns along Dean's back with the tips of his fingers, prompting murmurs of pleasure. After a long while, Dean said, "What are you… are those words?"

"Latin."

"What Latin?"

Sam smiled, teeth flashing white in the darkness. "Well… that—" and here his fingers made an elaborate series of flourishes—"is a prayer for protection, and that—" another pattern here " —is a claiming ritual, and that—" a slow, simple series of movements "—is I love you."

Sam had never said that before. Not in words. Not like that.

"Claiming ritual, huh? You want to tattoo me with your mark or something, Sammy?" Dean was joking—but not.

Sam sensed it. "Would…you wouldn't. Would you?"

Dean looked at Sam's face in the faint light of the waxing moon through the bedroom window, so cautious and yet so hopeful. "Would you?"

"Dude, I'd tattoo 'My heart belongs to Dean Winchester' on my chest."

"I'm serious, Sam. Would you?"

Sam's face grew somber. "I would literally tattoo that on my chest, but you'd kill me."

"Yeah, kinda hard to explain that one to Dad."

"Dean. What are you asking?"

"I'd wear your mark if you'd wear mine."

Sam was extraordinarily sensitive, but he really didn't cry at the drop of a hat. And yet there he was, crying for the second time that night. "Yes," he whispered against Dean's mouth. "Yes."


	7. Let Me

No sooner had Dean drifted off to sleep, head nestled on Sam's chest, when he felt Sam's hand brush against the curve of his lower back. He stirred, reflexively pressing his hips towards his brother, his cock already filling.

Sam made a quiet, satisfied sound, brushing his mouth over Dean's throat. Dean started to move, but Sam's hand on his chest stilled him. "Let me."

Dean murmured sleepy nonsense as Sam brushed his mouth along Dean's throat, throwing his head back and letting Sam lick and kiss his skin, so softly he barely felt it—and somehow that made him feel it even more keenly, as though a heavier pressure would have just dulled the sensation.

Sam slipped free of Dean's grasp and let Dean settle onto the mattress on his stomach. Sam straddled his lower back, ghosting his fingertips over Dean's skin, again barely touching, and again, somehow, the sensation was more intense for it.

Dean wasn't used to this. Not to any part of it. Obviously, he wasn't used to the sleeping with his brother part, but frankly, he found many social rules to be ridiculous under close inspection, and he and Sam didn't live inside society anyway. So the general "ooh, incest is icky" thing? Not such a problem inside Dean's head.

He also wasn't used to sleeping with guys. Sure, he'd experimented a little. Jacked off to soft-core porn with Vince Criesco. Let Mike Dodd blow him once after smoking a really good joint. But that was pretty much it. Guys, generally speaking, weren't his thing. Just Sam. Somehow, Sam was outside all the rules and guidelines. He had barely begun to get to know and touch and learn his brother's body, and already, it was all he wanted.

He wasn't used to getting what he wanted. That was a big one. But Sam wanted him. After all this time of watching and wanting and wondering, it was really true. Sam wanted him. And not just wanted him. Wanted him like it was the only thing between him and dying. Wanted him like Dean wanted Sam. And wanted to give Dean everything.

But the key element in that exact moment was that Dean wasn't used to being treated with such love and devotion. Sure, girls had fallen in "love" with Dean. Some even treated him like a movie star, gushing and fawning over him, and clearly full of adoration, but it was the kind of thing that rang false to Dean. Felt unhinged, unhealthy.

Yeah, his baby brother being in love with him should have struck him as unhealthy. But it actually wasn't. And part of that was because Sam simply radiated purity. When Sam loved, that love was pure by definition, because it was Sam that felt it.

And here Dean was, dissolving under Sam's touch as Sam—there was no other word for it—worshipped him with his touch, his gaze. Dean could feel it radiating through Sam's fingertips, feel it soaking into his skin and sinking down to his bones. Feel how Sam touched him with such tenderness, such complete focus, such love.

Dean really wasn't used to that.

Sam slid down a little farther, his weight positioned over Dean's upper thighs, and trailed his fingertips along Dean's lower back, down over the curve of his ass.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Dean gasped. Sam's touch felt electric, sparking subtle sensations in his skin he'd never felt before.

He brushed his fingertips in slow circles, slipping down the outside into the indentations at the side of each hip, then back up.

Dean arched his back, skin coming alive under Sam's touch.

Sam moved lower, brushing his fingertips down the back of Dean's thighs. Dean made a soft, hushed sound he would never admit to in the light of day. Because Dean Winchester didn't make soft, hushed sounds of pleasure.

Except when he did.

Sam moved between Dean's knees and gently pressed them apart, laying down between them. He used his mouth in the same soft, barely-there pressure, ghosting his parted lips over the curve of Dean's lower back, lower, brushing over the curve of his ass, exhaling warm and moist air over his skin.

Dean bit his lip."Oh god." He wasn't going to… oh god, please, let him be about to…

Sam extended the tip of his tongue, licking Dean's skin so, so softly, moving along his flank, down to the juncture where his ass met his upper thigh, tonguing that line so delicately.

"Sam, " Dean whispered.

Sam dropped his hands to the backs of Dean's thighs, gently pressed them outward. Asking.

Dean spread his legs for Sam. Saying yes.

Sam's tongue brushed against the cleft in Dean's ass, just on the topmost curve. Then again, pushing a little deeper. Closer.

Dean groaned, arching his back, canting his ass up, and spread his thighs wider, opening himself to Sam.

Sam kittenlicked between Dean's ass cheeks, the tip slipping between them, barely touching where Dean now desperately wanted to feel Sam's tongue.

Suddenly, Dean felt shy. All his dirty talk dried up. His sweet little brother was about to rim his ass, and he didn't have words for that.

Sam's tongue lapped tentatively, as though he was nervous it might be not so nice. A soft sigh, and another swipe of the tongue, more firmly this time.

Dean groaned, balling his fists in the sheets. An answering moan from Sam, as he began lapping at Dean's tight little hole, licking him again and again.

"Jesus Christ mother of god holy shit, Sam." Dean found words again. Not delicate words but it was not the time for eloquence.

Sam chuckled, and Dean squirmed because it tickled. "Am I doing it right?"

Dean blew out a sharp puff of air. "Guh." He laughed. "Yeah. Fuck yeah, you're doing it right."

Another lap of Sam's tongue, then a swirl around the rim, and a long, slow lick all the way up the center again. Goddamn, that kid was going to be a ninja master of sex without much practice at all, Dean thought.

Sam pulled off slightly, blew a puff of breath over the wet flesh. Dean shivered. "More?"

By way of answer, Dean got up on his hands and knees and offered his ass to Sam.

Sam accepted. Greedily. Apparently, Sammy loved licking Dean's ass as much as Dean loved licking Sam's. For such a sweet, virginal kid, Sam was shockingly forthright when it came to sex. Once he was shown the ropes, he wasn't restrained by inhibition or shyness, nor was he indiscriminately slutty like a few of the girls Dean had been with (but always, since the very first time, with a condom, under the most stringent safe-sex rules, because Dean had always known he would be with Sammy someday, and wanted to ride him bare, wanted to be clean enough to come in his ass and mouth without putting his Sammy at risk).

By the way he moaned and licked and sucked with total abandon, Sam genuinely loved his tongue in Dean's ass.

By the way he groaned and gasped and writhed with total abandon, Dean loved Sam's tongue in his ass every bit as much.

"Christ, Sammy. Not gonna last…"

Sam gnawed on Dean's right ass cheek. "Told you. Wanna make you come a bunch of times tonight." And he lapped up into Dean's ass, making Dean soften, open up, let him in, pushing past the outer sphincter, shivering when he got his first taste of the sweet, silky soft skin just inside.

At that feel of Sam's clever, probing tongue entering him, Dean cried out, collapsing down on one arm, right hand going to his cock as he began coming untouched, fisting his cock hard and fast, orgasm rapidly building into holy-shit-this-is-too-much territory, voice breaking, uttering a half-chant, half-sob, "Sam. Fuck. Oh god. Sam."

Sam grabbed Dean's ass cheeks with both hands and fucked Dean with his tongue, driving in as deep as he possibly good, licking inside him, going even deeper, and Dean, for the first time in his life, screamed someone's name other than Christ.

It took him a few minutes to regain control of his body, shaking and gasping for air. Then he dropped flat on the bed and rolled over, pulling Sam down so he straddled Dean, holding his hair, kissing him slow and deep, then licking at Sam's lips, teaching Sam there was nothing they could do together that was dirty or gross. When Dean did that, Sam began to tremble violently, making helpless little panting sounds into his mouth.

"You like that too? Me licking the taste of my ass out of your mouth? Christ, Sammy, you're fucking perfect. Perfect." Sam's hips bucked uncontrollably, fucking the air, desperate for Dean, desperate to come. "My sweet baby boy." Sam shuddered. So close to breaking. To coming on nothing… just desire and the sound of Dean's voice.

Dean decided he loved this idea beyond measure, and wanted to try it out—later. "Wanna come for me so bad, don't you."

Sam groaned and gyrated his hips, not lowering down to press his cock against Dean, instinctively knowing that Dean wanted him to ask permission. Liked the game of it. Liked making him say please. Liked it being absolutely clear that Sam wanted this.

"Please. Let me."

Dean placed his come-slick hand on Sam's cock and began jacking him off. When Sam realized what was making Dean's hand so slippery, realizing it was Dean's come all over his cock, he made a surprised cry and spasmed, coming so hard and fast he was sobbing by the end, Dean staring up at him in wonder, whispering, "So good. So good. So good."

Sam collapsed into Dean's arms, crying. After a few moments, he sniffled and said, "Sorry. Dunno why I'm like this."

Dean brushed Sam's hair out of his eyes. "Hush. Don't you ever apologize for that. Not ever. It's awesome."

Sam looked up at Dean through wet eyelashes. "You don't think I'm being a baby?"

"Are you kidding? Hell no. You're… dude. You just came so hard for me it made you cry. That's… you don't even get it, how awesome that is." Dean's face was lit up like Christmas morning. And in a way, it was. If Santa was a kinky, pervy, benevolent pagan god.

Sam shoved the back of his hand across his eyes. "It's… it's a good thing?"

Dean brushed his hand along Sam's cheek. "It's the best." He took Sam's mouth in his and kissed him soft and sweet. "You. Are the best."

And it was like this, laced in each other's arms, that Sam and Dean fell asleep. And did not hear the sound of Bobby's truck pull up to the house. And did not hear the sound of John and Bobby's footsteps up the stairs, moving past their closed door and into their separate bedrooms at the end of the hall.


	8. You're Gonna Love This

The scent of bacon woke the boys, still wrapped in each others' arms. They stared at each other in shock, both knowing that sometimes John would just walk right into their room with only a brief knock to announce himself.

"Gotta put a lock on that door today," Dean muttered, as they threw on their clothes hastily. Dean sat on the bed tying his shoes. "You go down first, Sammy. "

Sam leaned down and brushed his lips against Dean's cheek, then headed for the door. Dean pulled him back and threw him down on the bed, straddling him, pinning his wrists to the mattress and kissing him like he was starving.

Sam whimpered, arching his back. "Not fair, Dean." Dean sucked on the lobe of Sam's right ear. Sam shuddered, then immediately pushed Dean off forcefully. "Stop."

Dean stood up, legitimately surprised. "Sorry. Thought you'd like that."

Sam fixed Dean with a serious expression. "I do. That's the problem. You can't… you can't just DO that."

"Why not?" Dean was perplexed.

Sam's entire body was rigid, muscles in his neck standing out. "Because… that goes straight to my dick. You do that… if you don't let me come…you can't just do that and make me go downstairs."

Dean got it.

He pushed Sam back down on the bed and lay alongside him, hands scrabbling at Sam's jeans. "How fast can you come for me, baby boy?" Dean shoved his hand inside Sam's pants, wrapping his fingers around his cock, and latched onto Sam's earlobe, sucking and lapping at it.

The answer was pretty damn fast. And hard.

Then Sam sank to his knees and wordlessly asked Dean the same question as he took his cock into his mouth, staring up at him with his big hazel eyes.

Dean answered him in record time.

They went down for breakfast. Bobby had made thick-cut peppered bacon, a huge pot of strong coffee, and was working on something on the griddle.

Dean stopped dead. "Are you making… chocolate chip pancakes?"

"What, you didn't think I could handle a basic quick bread? More to me than meets the eye, Dean."

"But…" Dean was at a loss for words. "Chocolate chip. Pancakes."

Mary used to make chocolate chip pancakes.

John never made pancakes, with or without chocolate chips.

Dean stared at Bobby with something close to awe.

Bobby's mouth softened into a smile. "Just glad to see you boys again, is all. Wanted to make something nice. Besides, me and your dad had a real good night."

Sam sat down at the table, pulling out the chair next to him for Dean. Dean sat down, a little dazed. Sam poured them both a cup of coffee, adding cream and sugar to his.

Dean took a deep swig of his black coffee. Bobby stacked three fat pancakes onto a plate, tucked a nest of bacon strips alongside and set it in front of Dean.

"I'm dead. And this is heaven." His glance at Sam was loaded with meaning, and he squeezed Sam's thigh under the table.

Dean squirted a generous amount of Mrs. Butterworth's over the top of his stack and took a huge bite. "Mmmphing heaven," he muttered.

Bobby turned away from the boys and went back to the griddle. "Yours are coming right up, Sam."

Sam watched Dean eat, a funny smile on his face, his tongue darting out to swipe over his lower lip.

"Drink your juice, Sam. Help you get big and strong."

"Not yet." Sam swiped his tongue over the seam of his lips again.

And Dean realized what he was doing. Tasting Dean on his lips. And liking it. Liking it a lot.

Dean had to close his eyes for a moment to regain his composure. When he opened them, Sam scooped his finger through the mixture of syrup and melted butter on top of Dean's pancakes, slipped it between his lips and sucked it clean, eyes locked onto Dean's.

Dean cocked his head and sent Sam a stern look promising him so very many things the next possible chance he got.

John thumped into the kitchen like a general, crackling with energy.

Bobby set a plate of pancakes and bacon down in front of Sam.

"Thanks, Uncle Bobby," Sam said, but didn't touch his food.

John walked to the counter and began eating bacon off the platter.

"Eat your damn food, Sam," Dean whispered.

"Don't want to get the taste of you out of my mouth." Sam whispered back.

Dean pressed his palms flat on the table and took a few deep, steadying breaths. Then he leaned over and whispered in Sam's ear, "I'll give you more later. As much as you want."

Leaning back in his chair, he said at a normal volume, "Eat your food before it gets cold, Sam."

Sam mouthed, "Promise?"

Dean crossed his heart.

Sam ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek one last time, then forked a large triangle of pancake into his mouth.

After they had all eaten their fill and thanked Bobby profusely, John and Bobby sat the boys down in the living room and explained what had happened the night before.

"We're getting closer to finding the demon that killed your mother." Dean sat up straight, and Sam leaned forward in his chair. "Got a lead on a…"

"A nest," Bobby spat.

John laughed humorlessly. "Yes. A nest of demon sympathizers."

Dean blinked. "Of what?"

"Humans, if you still can call 'em that," Bobby continued. "People that want to help the demons. Work for them. Do favors. Demons give them a little taste in return. Make 'em a little bit demon."

"That's horrible." Sam shook his head in disbelief.

"Yes. It is." John's face was hard. "They're every bit as much a monster as anything we hunt. You can't let yourself be fooled by the fact that they look human. That they are mostly human. Because mostly isn't enough."

"But demons are super powerful. Why would they need people to do stuff?"

"We don't understand most of what they do or why they do it, Sam," John said.

"They're just another tool in a really big arsenal that helps them fuck shit up." Bobby went to the table in the far corner of the living room to retrieve a folded-up piece of paper.

"Anyway, so we got a call last night that one of our people had spotted one of these demon sympathizers and had snatched him up for us."

Dean frowned. "That thing you had to pick up? Was a person?"

"NOT a person, Dean. Ain't you been listening? A demon sympathizer." Bobby unfolded the paper, smoothing it out on the table.

John continued. "So we interrogated this…thing. Extracted some very useful information."

Sam held up his hand. "Wait. What? Interrogated? Like… how?"

John leaned forward. "We're hunters, Sam. Not babysitters. And we're at war. You know that." Sam lowered his gaze. He knew it was true. "Those things aren't human. There's no Geneva Convention for them." Sam squirmed visibly, but couldn't come up with an airtight argument, so he remained silent.

"What kind of information did you get?" Dean pushed the conversation back to where it had been going.

"How many in the nest. What they were doing for the demon. Best of all, he let slip where they're based."

"Wouldn't give us no address, though. Not even with your dad working him over. Tough son-of-a-bitch." Bobby shook his head with grudging respect.

Sam and Dean stared at their father with a mixture of admiration and something darker and far less pleasant.

"So we're gonna put a plan together and go after them. We need the head of the nest. We can use him as bait. Trap the demon." John's face was lit up, happier than either of the boys remembered seeing him before. Bobby motioned to the boys to come look at the hand-drawn map he'd unfolded and pointed out to them where the demon sympathizer said the nest was based.

John joined them at the table, and explained his general plan. "…and that's where we can flush them into our trap. But we need to run around a bit and set things up. We'll need your help later, but for right now, it's best if we leave you here for a little while. Can you boys take care of yourself for a few days, maybe a week?"

Dean looked over at Sam. His expression was placid, oh-so-casually accepting. "Yessir. Take as much time as you need. We'll be fine. I'll take care of Sammy."

John headed toward the stairs. Sam took a deep breath. "Dad? What happened…after he gave you the information?"

John stopped, and looked back over his shoulder. His eyes were sad. "Son, if you trap a rabid dog, you don't just let him back out in the world."

Bobby took the boys to the grocery store and let them pick out what they wanted to eat. Sam chose stuff to make salads and his new favorite thing that he'd learned how to make: stir-fry. Dean grabbed fixings for hamburgers, hot dogs, spaghetti with meat sauce, and the only other thing he knew how to make, tuna noodle casserole.

Bobby slipped three six-packs of beer into the cart. "This is to keep you two out of my whiskey. Not a drop of my whiskey, and don't even try the watering-down trick with me. And I know the level of each bottle, and you don't wanna test me on this." Bobby rubbed his beard. "For the love of all that's holy, do not tell your father about this. And don't drink it all at once. Only one per night, for each of you. Two if you absolutely have to. And if you drink any more 'n that, you puke in the toilet and not anywhere else, and you take your hangover like a man. Got it?"

"We got it." Dean grinned.

"Thanks, Uncle Bobby."

Bobby had Sam and Dean put the groceries away, slipping into the pantry to hide the beer, signaling to Dean where he stashed it.

John slammed a cup of cold coffee and grabbed his Army surplus bag, packing up the rest of what he needed. Dean followed him from room to room, making sure he didn't forget anything, so there was no unpleasant, "Oops, I forgot something" returns to the house.

"I'll call you every night and let you know what's up. Sam, Bobby's got you set up to start school next Monday. We should be back by then, but if we aren't, Dean, I need you to take him at 7 am to meet with his counselor and get his class schedule. Information's in a manila envelope on top of the fridge." John ruffled Sam's hair. "And see if you can't talk him into getting a damn haircut, wouldja?"

"Good luck with that," Sam retorted with a smile.

"And don't get lazy. I want you two training every day, rest day on Sunday. What are you working on right now, Dean?"

"Target practice—accuracy hitting a moving target. Sparring. Endurance."

"And Sam, what are you two going to study?"

"Memorizing the exorcism ritual. Native American lore. And flash cards."

"What kind?"

"How to kill what."

"Very good." John smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Proud of you boys."

Sam gasped, very quietly. But Dean heard.

"Ok, we have to head out. Got a lot to get done. Dean, don't work your brother too hard."

Dean licked his lips. "Don't work Sammy too hard. Check."

"Let him have some fun, alright? Blow off a little steam. Do what he wants sometimes." Sam fought to keep his expression innocent.

"Alright. We'll be back as soon as we can." John gave Dean a man-hug (one arm around the shoulders, a single step closer, thumping the other hand twice across the upper back), and walked out the front door.

John and Bobby's footsteps echoed down the entryway and down the front steps. Bobby's truck started with a tubercular cough and a rumble, and they drove away.

They waited in silence. The truck stayed gone.

Sam smacked Dean's arm. "Didja hear Dad? Gotta let me have some fun. Do what I want."

Dean bumped against Sam, hands curving around his ass. "Sure, sweetheart. After I work you hard."

Sam leaned in hungrily, kissing Dean like he'd been dying for it all morning.

Which he had.

Dean luxuriated in the feel of his little brother opening to him, want radiating off him.

"You taste like coffee, Sam." Sam's breath was already coming faster. "I promised I'd take care of that for you." And Dean didn't even have to put any pressure into his hands on Sam's shoulders.

Sam fell to his knees, and let Dean take out his cock. He rubbed it over his lips, against his cheek, let his hair spill forward and brush over it. Dean groaned. "Never cutting your hair, Sammy. Fucking never."

Sam licked Dean's cock in broad, flat strokes like an ice cream cone, flicking the tip of his tongue into the slit, moaning at the taste of the droplet of pre-come he teased out.

"Christ, you love it, don't you. You really love it."

Sam sucked on the head, then pulled off and stroked Dean's cock with his fingers. "You taste good." Sam took a deep breath, blew it out. "Been wanting to do this for so long, Dean. You don't even know."

Dean trembled. "When? When did you first think of sucking my dick?"

"Been a long time." Sam plunged his mouth down over Dean's cock, driving rational thought from his mind. He worked him with a bit more finesse this time, learning from Dean's little sounds and breathing what felt good, and what felt "holy shit I'm gonna lose it" good.

And then Dean had an idea.

He pulled Sam to his feet. "Clothes. Off." He quickly stripped, kicking his trainers to the side, peeling off socks, jeans, boxers and t-shirt. Sam did the same, eyes darting around the room, at the window in the kitchen that looked into the living room. "Are you sure—"

"They're gone, Sam. Just us." Dean pulled Sam to him for a kiss, unable to keep his mouth off Sam's. Then he took his hand and led him to the wide, comfortable couch. "Lay down."

Sam stretched out on the couch. Dean knelt next to him at an angle, facing away from Sam's head, his left hip touching the side of the couch, and lowered his mouth on Sam's cock. He worked him for a moment or two, until Sam was moaning and letting his thighs fall open. Then he said, "You want me in your mouth again, Sammy?"

"God. Yes."

Dean rose up, throwing his left leg over Sam, bringing his right knee up, sliding back and settling over Sam, his cock poised over Sam's mouth. "You're gonna love this, baby boy." He lowered himself slowly into Sam's open mouth, Sam taking him in with a groan, and dropped his mouth onto Sam's cock, hands moving beneath him to grip Sam's ass.

The sound that came out of Sam's mouth was low, feral. He sucked Dean's cock feverishly, hips bucking up, fucking Dean's mouth, crying out with each exhaled breath.

Dean could barely stand the pleasure of it, sharp and shaking, so open, so exposed, his mouth full of Sam, Sam's mouth full of him, right there on the couch. The symmetry of it was astonishing. Him sucking Sam's cock. Sam sucking his cock. Hands gripping each other's asses, kneading, taking each other as deep as they could, answering each wet push/pull of lips and tongue with a groan, a roll of the hips, groaning and growling and hissing, sucking the head of Sam's cock, and Sam answering, mirroring everything Dean did to him, a flick of the tongue on Sam's cock answered with a perfect parallel of Sam's tongue on his.

Dean slowed down and sucked slowly, so slowly, down the length of Sam until his lips touched the base, driving tears from his eyes, then pulling back slowly, so slowly, tongue pressed against Sam's hard flesh, all the way to the tip, swirling his tongue around the head, then back down again, trying to prolong the pleasure of it.

Sam followed Dean's lead, and Dean realized Sam was letting him teach him like this. Teach his little brother how to suck his cock.

"Fuck," Dean moaned, his mouth full. "So good, baby boy. Gonna make you come in my fucking mouth." Wasn't going to last. Couldn't possibly last. Didn't want to. He wrapped his hand around the base of Sam's cock and sucked on the last third, hard and demanding, his fist following the rise and fall of his mouth.

Sam fell apart under him, body shaking, mimicking what Dean was doing to him, crying out without breaking the seal of suction, then wrapped both arms around Dean's lower back and held him tight, taking him deep, making the sweetest, most helpless cries of pleasure, bucking up into Dean's mouth, spilling hot and salty into his mouth, an intense flavor but not unpleasant, not unpleasant at all, because it was Sam. Sam coming in his mouth.

And suddenly, all Dean wanted to do was make Sammy come in his mouth, over and over, feel that total trust and abandon, feel Sam give himself to Dean, give part of his body, his essence to Dean for him to swallow, take inside, make part of himself. "This is my body," thought Dean, as he swallowed Sam, and then Dean lost it, fell to pieces, shivering and moaning, his Sammy's mouth wet and hot on him, sucking him, pulling it out of him, wanting it, wanting to taste him again, wanting it. Wanting Dean.

And Dean raised his head up, pressed his cheek against Sam's thigh and howled, and gave Sam what he wanted.


	9. Hold Me Now

Sam and Dean spent the afternoon getting in their six-mile run, sit-ups and pushups, and were lounging in the living room in front of a fire, working on their flash card training.

Sam held up an index card with the word "Rugaru" written on it in black marker.

"Kill it with fire." Dean crossed his legs at the ankle and leaned back on the couch.

Another card. Changeling.

"Also kill it with fire."

Sam stared at the cards. "These are kinda lame."

Dean snorted. "Kinda, huh."

"I'm hungry." Sam was always hungry. Constant low level hunger that spiked to ravenous several times a day. It was astonishing how much food he could put away. But it was also astonishing how tall he was getting. Only fifteen and he was already nearly as tall as Dean. Not that Dean would admit it.

"What do you want? Burgers?" Dean's face was hopeful.

"Or maybe spaghetti?" Sam's face was equally hopeful.

"My way?" Sam's way of making spaghetti involved ground turkey, grated zucchini and chopped up spinach in marinara. It wasn't bad, but Dean preferred it his way: same red sauce, but with ground beef, onions and mushrooms.

Sam didn't even protest. "Sure." He stretched, pulling his long arms over his head with his fingers laced, and put the index cards back in their envelope. "I wanna take a bath. You need the room first?"

Sam took long, elaborate, girly baths, with scented oils and a book and music playing. Once, Dean had even caught him sneaking in votive candles. He could spend hours in the tub, running more hot water when the bath cooled off, until his fingers and toes were pruny like an old man. So it was only polite to offer up the facilities to Dean before he locked them down for a long time.

"Yeah, I could bleed the lizard."

"Ew."

"What? You haven't heard that before?"

"Course I have. From douchebags."

Dean smacked Sam's arm. "Calling me a douchebag, Sam?"

"Keep talking like one, I might." Sam smiled, softening the words into the light teasing he intended.

"You prefer squeeze the weasel?"

"Dean."

Dean walked up the stairs to the bathroom. "Drain the main vein?"

"You're like a child."

"See a man about a horse?"

"It's like you're 12."

From the closed bathroom door floated the words, "Tapping a kidney?"

"You're. So. Gross."

While Sam ran his bath, drizzling in a few drops of lavender oil from Bobby's stash of essential oils, Dean went to it in the kitchen.

He wasn't much of a cook, but he could make a few things very well. Spaghetti with meat sauce was his best dish.

His knife skills weren't relegated to the realm of violence. Dean made short work of the yellow onion, neatly slicing the end off for stability on the cutting board, slashing through it vertically in even rows, then horizontally, and then lopping off cubes in a rough dice. He scooped out a mottled spoonful of bacon grease from the coffee can Bobby kept next to the stovetop, and sautéed the onions until they had softened and caramelized here and there. Cracking the lid of the jarred marinara sauce with a wet pop, he poured the contents into a saucepan and added the onions.

A few quick motions of the chef's knife and the mushrooms lay in tidy slices. Into the cast iron pan with a bit more bacon grease until they yielded their moisture. Into the saucepan they went. Finally, Dean crumbled two pounds of ground beef into the pan and seared it until it coughed up its grease, poured it off, then sautéed it until evenly brown. He dusted it with Italian seasoning and salt, and scraped it into the saucepan.

He put another log to the fire and sat on the couch waiting for Sam, working on a beer, the scent of simmering sauce filling the house with a warm, homey smell.

Sure enough, Sam didn't spend nearly as long in his bath as Dean might have expected. Only 45 minutes after he went into the tub, Dean heard the creak of old pipes as the bathwater was drained, and the high-pitched whine of Sam's hair dryer, the possession of which Dean gave Sam shit for but secretly loved the end result. Dean cranked up the simmering pasta water and dumped in two boxes of spaghetti.

"That smells awesome, dude." Sam trudged down the staircase, hair perfectly smooth and shining. He kissed Dean on the neck. Dean breathed deep, openly inhaling the scent of green apple shampoo and the Irish bar soap Bobby preferred.

Dean grabbed Sam a bottle of beer and forked an enormous heap of buttered spaghetti onto the plate, ladeling several full scoops of meat sauce over the top. He set it in front of Sam at the table and slid the green can of Parmesan cheese toward him.

Sam stared up at him with wide eyes. "You're the best."

Dean's mouth twitched in that tiny smile he gave on rare occasions, when something amused him deeply. "The best what?"

Sam opened his mouth, intending to say "brother," but nothing came out, as he realized the difficulty of naming what they were now. Dean could practically hear the gears whirring in that powerful brain of Sam's, already so smart it was scary. "The best everything."

Dean served himself an equally huge plate of spaghetti, turning the cheese can's top to fully open holes and shaking a great cloud of Parmesan over it.

They ate the first plate quickly, like the teenagers they were.

The second helping, they ate more slowly. By the time their plates were reduced to red, oily smears, they had both finished two beers.

They looked at each other, remembering Bobby's stern admonition to keep it to two each per night.

"Might as well finish off the six-pack, right?" Sam went to the refrigerator and pulled out two more.

Dean rifled through Bobby's stack of movies on VHS. "Dude, we have got to bring this guy into the 20th century. Get him a frickin' DVD player."

Bobby owned nearly ever Western from the 30s to modern day. Sam and Dean bickered over whether to watch A Fistful of Dollars or Unforgiven, when Sam uncovered a tape hiding behind The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. Dean took one look at the box and threw his hands in the air. "Done."

Dean pulled a blanket out of the vast, old trunk next to the wide, comfortable couch and Sam inserted "Blazing Saddles" into the VCR and turned the lights off, kicking a small bag he'd brought down with him to the side of the couch.

They settled back under the blanket, fire flickering, making the shadows dance and writhe behind them, drinking their third beer each, feeling the warmth rise up from within and seep in from without, becoming giddy when two met and melted into one. Arms around each other, they got lost in the movie, laughing so hard tears rolled down their cheeks.

They watched the ending, rapt.

"Where you headed, cowboy?"

"Nowhere special."

"Nowhere special." Gene Wilder tips up his hat. "I always wanted to go there."

Dean sighed. "Best ending line in any movie, ever."

Sam couldn't dispute that. Dean watched Bart and the Waco Kid dismount their horses and get into the car. Sam just watched Dean in the soft light of the fire, a curious expression on his face.

"What's on your mind, Sammy?" Dean loved how Sam looked at him. Like he was a work of art and the hottest woman in the world walking along the beach in a barely-there string bikini, all in one.

Sam just blinked his long eyelashes once, without artifice. But the effect was striking.

Dean leaned in. "So, you all nice and clean from your bath, Sam?"

Sam's eyes darkened. That's all it took.

Dean stoked the fire, adding another log. He didn't want his Sammy getting cold. And he wanted him—oh, how badly he wanted him, stretched out naked in front of the fire, that warm light playing over his naked body.

Dean pulled a thick comforter out of the trunk and spread it out in front of the fireplace. Then he pulled Sam to his feet and undressed him, slowly.

"Are you cold?" Dean peered at Sam, concerned.

"No. Not at all."

"But you're shaking."

"Not cold." Sam stood before Dean naked, trembling visibly.

"Is it… is this too…are you feeling shy?"

Sam's mouth slipped into an easy smile. "No. I like being like this with you." He made a small gesture indicating his nakedness. "Your face gets all…lit up."

"That's 'cause you're fucking beautiful naked. Love to see you like this."

San stretched himself out on the comforter, watching Dean watch him. "There's a bag by the couch. Get it for me?"

Dean found the small paper bag and handed it to Sam. He pulled a small bottle of sweet almond oil out of it and paused, blushing. Then he popped the cap and drizzled the oil over his chest, rubbing it in until his skin gleamed.

"Fuck. Sam. You're…" and Dean couldn't continue. Not in words.

"Gonna come down here anytime soon?" Sam stared up at Dean, face rapt, as he shucked off his clothing and lay down next to Sam.

The firelight played across their naked bodies like fingers delicately grazing their skin.

Dean groaned as he dragged his hand over Sam's oiled flesh. Sam dripped more oil over his stomach, between his legs, and, eyes locked onto Dean's, he spread his thighs slowly and worked the oil onto his cock.

"Jesus Christ, Sammy… gonna kill me." Dean watched Sam rub the oil all over his cock, not lasciviously putting on a show like a porn star, but with such trust and intimacy it brought tears to his eyes. He brought his hand to Sam's cock, slid over it easily, and Sam shivered, arching his back, letting his hand fall away. "Dean. Want you."

"Fuck. Gotta taste you, baby boy." Dean slid between Sam's legs, unable to resist licking a wide stripe up his cock, despite getting a mouthful of oil for his trouble. He settled between Sam's thighs, pushed them back, tipping his hips up and placing that sweet pink hole at the perfect level.

He lapped at Sam. Sam gasped.

He did it again. Sam hooked his knees over his hands and pulled his legs back as far as he could.

"You like it when I do this."

Sam answered with a moan.

"Good. Because I like doing it." Another long swipe of his tongue.

Sam had never stopped trembling, not from the moment he stood completely naked in front of the fire. But now the trembling was heightened, shivers rocking his frame with each lap of Dean's clever tongue.

When Sam grabbed his ass cheeks with both hands and pulled them apart, murmuring "more," Dean nearly lost it right there. Sam opened to him, his tight little rim softening, yielding, letting Dean's tongue in deeper.

Christ, he could do this forever, Dean thought, driving his tongue in deeper, punching a rough cry out of Sam, his cock blurting a gleaming drop of pre-come onto his stomach.

Dean scooped it off with his fingers and stuck them in his mouth, licking up the taste. "Sweet," he murmured.

Sam whimpered, running his hands through Dean's hair.

Dean resumed trying to kill his little brother by working his tongue in his ass.

He licked it with gentle curls of his tongue, teasing the tip around the rim, probing deeper, astonished at how silken the flesh just inside the rim felt on his tongue. It was the softest thing Dean had ever felt.

And Sam gave it to him. Just to him. Only him.

The sounds Sam made felt as good as physical touch to Dean, the little cries and gasps, and oh Christ, the pleading and begging. His beautiful, whip-smart little brother, so much smarter than Dean would ever be, stretched open for him without shyness, oil-gleaming in the hypnotic dance of the firelight, red mouth open, trembling with pleasure, with something deeper… it was almost too much.

He could come just from this. Struggled not to come just from this.

"Sammy," he breathed, moving up to lay over Sam. Sam pulled him down into a kiss, panting into his mouth, body a slow serpentine of desire beneath him.

Sam tipped them both over until they were laying on their sides, pressed the bottle of oil into Dean's hand. "Please. More."

Dean slicked his shaking fingers, unable to take his eyes off Sam, cheeks stained red, pupils wide, eyes half-lidded, biting his lip unconsciously, still trembling. Still trembling.

He pressed an oiled fingertip to the center of Sam's entrance. "This what you want, Sammy?"

Sam parted his thighs, pressing down against Dean's finger. "Dean. Please."

Dean pressed more firmly, and his finger breached Sam with barely any resistance at all. Sam just opened to him, repeating, "Oh…oh…oh…" and finally finishing with "god."

Dean bit his own lip, trying to keep it together, as the tight grip of his little brother on his finger threatened to shiver him to pieces. So good… it felt so good….it would feel so good on his cock but no, he couldn't, he wouldn't. Not yet.

But Sam. For the love of all that's holy, Sam. Sam rocked down on his finger, crying out as the entire length of it entered him, all the way to the last knuckle. "Yes. Yes. Yes." Sam chanted, body sheened with sweat.

Dean fucked Sam slowly with his finger, watching him writhe. Sam just fell to pieces, shivering, unable to hold still. Dean was suddenly seized with a desire to tie Sam down completely, knot him up so he couldn't move, HAD to hold still, and drive him crazy with his fingers up his ass and a long stream of sweet/dirty talk in his ear.

"More. Please. More." Dean increased the pace, but Sam shook his head. "More." His voice was rough with urgency.

Dean blinked a few times. Then he pulled his index finger out, brought his middle finger alongside, gently pressed the tips of both against Sam. "You want more, Sammy?"

Sam practically sobbed "Yes" and arched his lower back, driving himself down on Dean's fingers. They slid inside Sam without much less resistance than Dean expected. "Christ, Sammy. You just took that so easy for me."

Sam wrapped his arms around Dean, whispered in his ear, "Upstairs. Got myself ready for you."

Dean had to bite his lip and think of ugly people to avoid coming at the thought of Sam in the bathtub, working a finger (_or two at least two oh Christ three?)_ in his ass, preparing himself for Dean.

Dean swore and worked his two fingers inside Sam, fucking him slow and deep. Sam gave a frustrated groan, and fucked up into Dean's hand.

"Want it faster?"

Sam nodded furiously, sucking on Dean's lower lip.

Dean gave it to Sammy, faster, slick fingers working him, stabbing into him. Sammy bounced and jerked and groaned underneath Dean, gasping into his mouth. "Dean. Want you. Please. Want you so bad."

"You wanna come, Sammy?"

Sam's hazel eyes were wide, guileless, dark with need. "Want you inside me."

Dean wanted nothing more that to be inside Sam, that heat and tightness around him, feel Sam just lose it beneath him, driving into him, his Sammy, claiming him.

But he couldn't.

Sam sensed Dean's hesitation. ""S'ok. I… I, uh, cleaned myself. So you could… it's ok."

Sam's innocence just hammered home Dean's absolute resistance to going all the way with Sam before he turned sixteen. But Christ, he was two fingers inside his little brother's ass, and Sam was naked, oiled, prepped, and literally begging for it.

There was no way he could resist. Nobody could resist that.

Nobody except Dean Winchester.

He brushed his mouth over Sam's throat, murmured, "Not yet, Sammy. Gotta wait."

Sam answered by spreading his thighs wider, arching into Dean's fingers. "Please. Need you."

Dean shook his head no, whispered, "I can't, sweetheart. Not yet. Not 'till you're 16. We gotta wait."

Sam shuddered with frustration. "Can't wait. Need you inside me. So bad."

Dean worked his fingers inside Sam, crooked them, finding that spongy spot along the top wall and stroking it until Sam cried out, sharp and surprised. "I am inside you, baby boy."

Sam half-sat up, gripping Dean's shoulders, and said, "I want your cock inside me."

Dean seized Sam's mouth in his, driving his tongue into his mouth, pushed almost beyond endurance by that phrase coming out of Sam's mouth.

He pushed Sam back down. "Yeah? You want to feel my dick inside you? Want me to fuck you? Want to give it up to me?"

Sam was practically in tears. "Yes."

"Then you gotta be a good boy for me, Sammy. Gotta wait. I'll do it. I promise." Dean crawled between Sam's legs, worked his fingers into Sam harder now, stroking that special spot that drove sharp, delicious cries out of Sam, and wrapped his other hand around Sam's cock. "Christ, want to do it so bad. Want to be inside you, make you feel so good, split you open on my dick. You want that? Feel how good I'll fill you up? Want to come on my cock, baby boy?"

And Sam wailed, body seizing, wracked with tremors as he came, shooting ropy white strands into the air, landing on his throat and face.

Dean licked the come from Sam's throat, sucked it from his lips and cheek, hands scrabbling for the bottle of oil, slicking up his cock. "Fuck, you taste so good, Sam. Goddamn." He rolled Sam onto his side, wrapped his hand around Sam's chest, held him close and thrust his oiled cock between Sam's thighs. "Keep your legs closed." He pressed Sam close to him, fucking his smooth thighs, murmuring into his ear, "Love you so much, fuck, Sammy, feel so good, Christ, Sam, oh god, Sam, Sam, Sam…" And then Dean was lost in the spark-white chaos of his own orgasm, the taste of Sam on his lips, all control lost, shooting hot and wet between Sam's thighs, shuddering with the force of it.

Sam shook in his arms. Still trembling.

Dean stroked Sam's hair, his face. His face was wet.

No. Not still trembling.

Crying.

"Sammy? What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" Dean turned Sam to face him, held him close.

Sam wouldn't say anything. Just clenched his teeth and tried to hold the tears back, but they spilled, traitorous, down his cheeks.

"Shh… it's ok, Sammy. C'mere. Tell me. What's wrong?"

Sam just shook his head, breath coming erratic, control all but gone.

Dean stroked his hair. "You wanted…more tonight."

Sam cried openly.

Dean felt like an absolute, scum-sucking, puppy-murdering asshole. It was all clear now. Sam upstairs, taking a special bath. Getting ready for his night alone with Dean. No John, no Bobby. Dinner. Firelight. Beer.

Of course.

"You got yourself ready. Wanted tonight to be special."

Sam sob-hiccoughed, nodding wordlessly into Dean's chest.

Dean was glad Sam's eyes were closed. He couldn't bear to see the disappointment in them.

"I want that too. Sammy. I do. I swear." Dean held Sam close. It was killing him. This was killing him. "But it's important, Sam. Waiting. It's really important."

Sam sniffled. "Why?"

"Because it is. It just matters. Being sixteen first matters."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut harder. "But that's six months away."

"See? Just six months."

Sam's eyes flashed open. He stared at his brother like he was the world's biggest moron. "Just six?"

"Shhh. It'll be over before you know it." Dean kissed Sam's forehead. "You don't like the other stuff we're doing?"

Sam hiccoughed again. "'Course I do."

Dean assured him, "We're gonna do all that stuff. All the time. As often as we can get away with it. Ok?"

Sam burrowed his face in Dean's chest, but wouldn't look at him. Dean tipped his face up gently until he met his gaze.

"Hey. I'm gonna be counting the days. Literally. Counting the days. Don't you even doubt that I want you like that."

Sam took a deep breath, and wiped his eyes.

"You know I keep my promises, right?"

Sam nodded, softening.

"I'll make it worth the wait. I promise." And Dean sealed that promise, as solemn as any vow he had ever made or would ever make, with a soft brush of his lips across Sam's mouth.


	10. Didn't See That Coming

The next three days were different. Sam was responsive as always, and they did all the incredible "everything but" things they'd been doing, taking full advantage of having the house to themselves, but increasingly, Dean could feel something building beneath Sam's skin.

It didn't help that Dean couldn't stop talking about how much he wanted to fuck Sam. He wasn't doing it deliberately, to be cruel. He just couldn't stop thinking about it. Picturing it. Wanting it so bad he could taste it. Couldn't keep his slicked-up fingers out of Sam's ass, working him just like he wanted to fuck him, sliding in slow, taking forever to pull out, back in again until Sam was shaking, then picking up the pace, fucking him faster, eyes squeezed shut, pretending it was his cock, making Sam come on just his hand, whispering, "Gonna fuck you like this, baby boy, can't wait to feel you come on my cock like this, gonna feel so good…" Couldn't stop licking him open, burying his tongue in Sam's ass, tongue-fucking him like it was the best thing ever (_and it was Christ it fucking was_).

He couldn't let himself fuck his baby brother in the ass before he turned sweet sixteen. But he couldn't stop trying to get as close to the experience as possible.

He didn't even realize he was doing it. Or what it was doing to Sam.

It came to a head the day John and Bobby were supposed to come home.

They'd been sparring for 20 minutes. Dean kept pinning Sam, growing filthy/sweet nothings in his ear. Instead of making him shiver and breathe faster, spreading his legs for Dean, or rolling on top and rubbing against his thigh, needy and shameless, Sam just threw Dean over more roughly, gripped his wrists more firmly, put him in increasingly hard joint locks.

Instead of getting turned on, Sam was getting mad.

Sam tried to be patient. He really did. But he didn't like rules that made no sense. And this one made no sense to him.

After the third time of Dean getting the upper hand and purring, "Come on, baby boy, I know you want it…" into Sam's ear, Sam let out a frustrated hiss and trapped Dean in a submission hold from which he could not escape, and had to tap out.

"Nice move, Sammy." Dean stood up and held his hand out to Sam to pull him up.

Sam took it grudgingly, but when Dean went to close the distance between them and pull Sam in for a lingering kiss, he was met with a surprising opposing force, in the form of Sam's hand pressed against his chest, arm straight. Holding Dean away.

"Just… stop."

"What's up?" Dean stayed calm, despite the fact that his heart was pounding in his chest, and not for pleasant reasons. The feel of Sam pushing him away scared him.

"Not in the mood."

Dean gave Sam his best smile, guaranteed to melt panties and drop zippers on anyone in a three-mile radius. "You're always in the mood, Sammy."

Sam turned away, mumbling something under his breath.

"What?" Dean moved around Sam's side and stood in front of him, preventing him from leaving.

Sam stuck his jaw out and said in a louder voice, "Not in the mood for you cockteasing me. Is what I said."

Dean blinked. "That's what you think I'm doing?"

"Don't care what you think you're doing. It's what you ARE doing. Being a fucking cocktease." Sam's face was red from exertion and from the anger and frustration that had been building under the surface for days.

Dean should have been calmer. But he had inherited his father's temper, although to a lesser degree. He snapped, "Don't blame me because you can't handle following rules."

Sam's veneer of control cracked. "I only have trouble following stupid rules."

Dean took a step closer. That word triggered things in Dean. "You calling me stupid?"

"I'm calling your rules stupid."

Dean pursed his lips. "Stupid rules. Huh. Really."

Sam threw his hands out at his side, shoulders raised, in the challenging gesture he made when he got really mad. "Yeah, Dean. Stupid rules. Like that I'm too young for this body part to go into that body part. It's ridiculous. Like, I've noticed, I'm not too young to have your dick halfway down my throat, or your mouth all over me, you know? You've made it pretty clear I'm not too young to take your fingers up my ass. Huge yes to your fucking tongue up there. Not too young for you to talk about how good you're gonna fuck me. Won't fucking shut up about that. But I am too young for an actual cock in my ass."

Dean blew up. The words… they just came spilling out of his mouth. He could almost see them glowing in the air like fire as they escaped his mouth, impossible to pull back. "Jesus, Sammy. Are you that fucking desperate for it?"

Sam just stood there, fingers curled into hard white stone at his sides, breathing rapidly through his nose in sharp dragon snorts, like he did when he was so angry, he couldn't even risk letting his mouth open a crack for fear words he'd regret would pour out.

And it was in that moment that Sam and Dean heard the creaking suspension and rustling of gravel as Bobby's truck rolled up to the front of the house.

Sam spun on his heel and thumped into the house, pelting up the stairs and into the shower.

Dean washed his face and hands in the sink in the garage, drying them on a shop towel, and went inside to greet John and Bobby.

Not a soul noticed the dirty-white van that slowed way down as it passed the gravel road leading to Bobby's house.

The recon mission had not started off well. "Little bastard gave us wrong information. Nest wasn't where he said it was," Bobby announced, heading to the liquor cabinet to pour two double shots of bourbon. He handed one to John.

"We tracked them all over town. Finally got a good lead though. Hunted them down." John tossed back half the contents of the tumbler in one swallow.

When Sam finished with his shower, Bobby and John were bent over the kitchen table with Dean, showing him the map they'd drawn and all the intel they'd gathered over their several days of surveillance.

"You find 'em?" Sam spoke from the kitchen hallway. His hair was still wet. He would not look at Dean.

Bobby was the only adult who noticed this. Dean pretended not to notice. John simply didn't.

"Yep."

"What's the plan?" Sam was curiously calm.

"We'll go over all of that after dinner."

Sam volunteered to cook. He wouldn't let Dean get near him, not even when John and Bobby were up to their elbows in Bobby's truck, replacing some squeaky belt or other.

As Dean's hot temper faded, he began to see even more of how stupid he'd been. Of course Sam was mad. Not about the rule, because waiting until sixteen was just the right thing to do, and Dean was damned if he wasn't going to do SOME part of this right.

No, Sam was mad because Dean had been cockteasing him. He knew how bad Sam wanted Dean like that. And here he'd been just talking it up. Couldn't keep his fingers out of Sam's ass. His tongue. And oh Christ, the things he'd been saying. As Sam cut potatoes into wedges, Dean built a new fire, remembering the things he'd been saying over the past few days.

Poor Sammy.

Dean slipped into the kitchen.

"Fuck off. " Sam spoke with his back turned.

"Sammy, I—"

"Fuck. Off." Sam tucked the potato wedges around the raw chicken, sprinkled everything with the red-topped can of garlic salt and shoved the pan into the hot oven roughly.

"Sam. Come on. I just—"

Sam shot Dean a look that withered his words in his throat.

He washed his hands and wiped them on a towel, then grabbed his heavy wool coat and headed outside. "Back in an hour."

Sam paced around the salvage yard. Bobby and John replaced the squeaky belt. And Dean sat in front of the fire, thinking.

Dinner was a muted affair. John had finally noticed the distinctive whiff of teenage angst rolling off Sam in waves.

"Dean." Dean looked up, mouth full of roast chicken. "Spill."

Dean's eyes went wide.

"Your brother seems pissed off. What happened?"

Dean swallowed. His mouth opened and closed on empty air.

"Nothing." Sam's voice was low, seemingly calm. He chewed on a potato wedge.

"Dean?"

"Nothing. Just… cabin fever. You know? No big deal. We're good. Right, Sammy?"

Sam fixed Dean with a level gaze. "Yeah. We're good."

Out of everyone at the dinner table, only John believed him entirely.

Dean cleared the dishes and he and Sam washed and dried them, putting on a show of brotherly solidarity.

Sam still wouldn't talk to Dean. Standing over the sink, he looked so angry and miserable that Dean's heart hurt.

It really came to a head after dinner.

John began laying out the plan of attack, how they would leave first thing in the morning, what Bobby would do, what John wanted Dean to do.

"What about me?" Sam stood at the table, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

John looked up at Sam in surprise. "You're not coming."

"Why does Dean get to go and not me?"

If Dean could have pulled it off in time, he would have faked a seizure. Thrown a flash bomb. Stood up and declared he was really a woman. Anything to derail his father from saying what he knew he was about to say. Not that. Not right then.

"Because you're too young."

Sam closed his eyes, and when he opened them, Dean was actually frightened of what he saw in them.

"I can help."

"That's not the point. You're too young, and that's that."

Sam put his hands on the table. "So you're saying that I could help. You aren't questioning my abilities. You just won't let me."

John looked around at Bobby and Dean, looking for allies. "Jesus, Sam, when did you turn into a little lawyer?" Sam's mouth twitched at the word "little."

Bobby met John's gaze. "He does have a point. He's strong enough. Damn well fast enough. Faster than Dean. Hell, he's as good a shot as you are."

John's mouth hardened. "I don't care. I'm damn well not taking my fifteen-year-old kid on a hunt."

Sam's breathing sped up. "So… like, when, exactly, would you take me on a hunt?"

"Not before you're sixteen."

Sam exploded. "What's the deal with sixteen? What's going to magically be different next spring? Am I going to be taller? A better hunter? What?"

John stood up. Sam was already nearly as tall as him. Still, his presence was intimidating, and he used it to his advantage. "What will be different, Sam, is you'll be sixteen."

Sam's breathing changed again, to that closed-mouth fast exhaling kind that signaled trouble.

"Sam. It matters. It's an important rite of passage. A fifteen-year-old is a boy. A sixteen-year-old is a young man."

Sam looked at John, and then at Dean. Dean stared back in solidarity with his father, expression practically screaming, "See?"

Sam yelled, "That's fucking stupid! It's arbitrary and has no basis in logic or empirical evidence. You can't just pick a date on the calendar and say this is too young and that's not too young. I can handle it, I can handle a lot more than any of you think, and it's just fucking stupid!"

Dean didn't say a word. But he knew Sam was yelling at him too.

"Samuel Joshua Winchester, you watch your language with me." John's face was ruddy, his eyes sharp and furious.

"What, I'm too young to curse too? You want me to go put on a diaper? Get a picture book?" Sam's face was bright red.

John got right up in Sam's face. Nothing could get John madder faster than Sam. "If you're going to act like a baby and throw a temper tantrum, then yeah. Maybe you do need a diaper."

Sam stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him with a loud crack.

John yelled after him, "Great job on proving my whole point, Sam."

Bobby found Sam later, slumped over in the back of a broken-down school bus in the back of the salvage yard. He brought him his coat, forgotten on the hook in the entry way, and draped it around his shivering body. "It's not fair, Sam. And I'm sorry." Sam fell against Bobby's chest, his own heaving as he struggled not to cry. "It's gonna be ok." Bobby stroked Sam's hair. "It's hard. I don't envy you, being your age. But time passes. Trust me." Bobby glanced up at his own weathered face in the window, illuminated by moonlight, saw the lines carved into his face and the grey in his beard. "It passes real quick."

Dean had been talking John's ear off the whole time Sam was sulking in the bus. He made up a story about how he and Sam had gotten into a fight and that Dean had called him a big baby and he was still mad at Dean, and that's why he got so upset. He stood up for Sam being ready to come along, broke out his best arguments, talking up Sam's abilities. He knew most of why Sam picked that fight was his fault, and wanted to make it up to him. By the time Bobby brought Sam back inside and mixed him up a Singer Special to warm him up, Dean had talked John into taking Sam on the hunt and giving him a chance.

Sam sat hunched over the kitchen table, cold and miserable. He drank his hot buttered bourbon and cider quickly, not tasting it. Dean rapidly explained everything— "So you can come, Sammy. We worked it all out."— and John pulled up a chair across from Sam as he finished,

Sam blinked his reddened eyes and said in a quiet voice, "You were right. You're all right." He took a last sip of his cider and pushed it away. "I'm too young. I'll stay behind."

He walked upstairs to their bedroom. John went up for a moment, motioning for Dean to stay behind. When John came down, he simply said, "He's not coming."

Later, when everyone else headed to bed, Dean slipped into bed next to Sam. Sam was in his full flannels, turned away from Dean. He put his arm around Sam's waist.

Sam let him.

Dean exhaled a shuddery breath, desperately relieved at the moment of closeness again. He nuzzled Sam's neck, ghosting his lips over the tiny hairs the way Sam loved it. He pressed himself closer.

Sam's body tensed. "If I'm too young to do everything, I'm too young to do anything."

And he wouldn't say anything else. Or let Dean touch him any more than that.

"Sam. Come on. You don't mean it."

By way of answer, Sam got up, taking his pillow, and walked to the door.

"Sam." Dean whispered.

"Going to sleep on the couch. Stay here, Dean."

Dean lasted all of an hour, unable to sleep. He snuck downstairs.

Sam was curled up on the couch, the blanket and comforter from the chest wrapped around him, shivering hard in the cold of the drafty living room, fire dead in the fireplace.

"Sammy," Dean murmured. "Come to bed. Come on."

Sam didn't move.

"Please. Come back to bed."

Sam allowed himself to be brought back to bed, and let Dean hold him until he stopped shivering, but that was all he would allow.

In the morning, Sam watched them back, sullen and unhappy, and load up the truck. "We'll call you once we've cleared the nest. Money's in the coffee can." Sam would barely meet anyone's eyes.

"Be back real soon, Sam. Ok?" Dean tried to pour everything he wanted to say but couldn't into his expression, his hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Come back safe, ok?" Sam whispered.

"You know it." Dean gave Sam his best cocky smile, and headed down the steps to the truck, where John and Bobby were waiting.

Bobby gave Sam a tip of his ball cap, John waved, and Dean just stared out the back window at Sam standing in the doorway until the truck rounded the corner and he couldn't see him anymore.

They made it 50 miles when the new fan belt snapped.

It took them a couple of hours to get a tow back to Bobby's, John and Bobby bickering the entire time, Dean wishing he had been able to stay home too.

When they got back to the house, the front door was open.

The kitchen was a shambles. Overturned furniture, broken kitchen table. Blood on the floor.

"Sam?" Dean called out. No answer. Dean started shaking uncontrollably.

Bobby picked up something from the kitchen counter. Held it up.

It was an unmarked VHS tape.

John's face was ashen as Bobby slipped the tape into the machine.

A grainy image of static, then a wavering handheld shot of the steps leading up to Bobby's front door. The back of someone. Hands reaching out, jimmying the lock, pushing the door open. The figure slipping into the front door, followed by a second and a third.

Sam's back. Sam turning, yelling, exploding in a frenzy of limbs. Cursing from unfamiliar voices. "Strong motherfucker. Quick. Get him." Sam falling under two men. Getting up again, sending them flying. The third coming for Sam, recoiling with a punch to his throat. "Good for you, Sammy," Dean whispered. The camera lowered to the floor on its side, the fourth man joining in. Sam finally succumbing, unable to take four at once.

Dean had to turn away at the sight of the four men over Sam. Kicking and punching.

A hand, wrapped in Sam's hair, pulling his bloodied face up, showing it to the camera. Another face entering the shot. Black, stringy hair. Sharp watery-blue eyes. "Hey, there, Johnny." His voice was tobacco-rough, with a distinct Alabama drawl.

"Dad. Who is that?"

John answered in a whisper. "That's Earle Spivey. Head of the nest. The father of the one we got ahold of."

Earle Spivey slapped a pale hand on Sam's face. Hard. Unconscious, he didn't react.

"Got your boy, Johnny." Earle's face was twisted, gleeful. "Gonna hurt him."


	11. Made of Sterner Stuff

Dean didn't know how, but he was on his hands and knees, bile rising in his throat thick and fast, and he was throwing up all over the rag rug, over and over until he was retching up nothing but air.

Bobby's face was a mask of you-don't-know-the-kind-of-hell-you-just-called-down-boy.

John dropped to his knees like a string had been cut. "Jesus. Not my boy. Not my boy too."

Dean wiped his mouth and dragged himself to his feet. "Come on. We gotta go."

Bobby put a hand on his shoulder. "Hang on, kid. We gotta do this smart."

Dean stared at Bobby like he didn't know who it was inside his skin. "They. Have. Sam." _The sound of boots impacting flesh, Sam's grunts of pain._ Dean shook all over."We have to go now. Right now. Right fucking now." His voice was desperate. He grabbed Bobby's shirt. "They have Sammy."

John rose to his feet. The rage in his face was, quite simply, terrifying. He put his hand on Dean's shoulder. "We're going to get him back." He took a rapid, shuddering breath. "But Bobby's right. We can't just run off half-cocked, or we'll walk right into the trap."

Dean didn't understand. The words rushed through him without sticking. He needed to hear, "…going now…kill them all…grab the arsenal…" What he heard instead was meaningless.

Dean raced to the door, grabbed the keys to the Impala and was in the driver's seat before John could stop him.

When he turned the key, nothing happened.

He wrenched open the hood, and stared in horror at the tangle of severed hoses and ripped-out parts.

Bobby's truck was non-operational.

The yard was filled with junkers in various states of disrepair. But none of them were running.

Dean dropped, waves of helplessness washing over him. Sam's bloodied face, lax and unresponsive in the hands of that thing that had him. _Got your boy, Johnny._ Dean began to sob, digging his fingers into the dirt. _Gonna hurt him_.

The fear built in Dean like nothing he'd ever felt before. Not ever. His Sammy. Taken. The sound of them hitting him. Hard enough to break bone.

_Gonna hurt him._

Dean retched again, crying hysterically now, unable to breathe.

"Dean. I need you to hold it together."

The impossibility of that statement was so vast that Dean began to laugh amidst the choking sobs and great sucking breaths of air that didn't seem to bring any actual oxygen into his lungs.

Another voice. Maybe Bobby's. It didn't matter.

_Gonna hurt him_.

No running vehicles. No way to get on the road and get Sam back, snatch him from the things that took him away from Dean.

Dean cried harder now, growing dizzy.

Strong hands gripping his flannel shirt, pulling him to his feet. A hard cuff across his face.

"Man up, son. You're worthless to Sam like this. He needs a soldier, not a crybaby." These words, so callous and hard, shocked Dean so much the sobs died in his throat.

John fixed Dean with a fierce stare. Beneath the military drill sergeant demeanor, Dean could see he was holding it together by the thinnest thread. "Sam needs you. Need your strength. Not your weakness. So lock that shit down. Stay frosty. Help me get Sam back alive."

That nearly undid him. The possibility behind that phrase.

Dean wrenched himself away from his father with an agonized sound and stumbled, half-blind with crying, to the nearest junker. He snatched up a piece of metal pipe and laid into it, raising up high and using his whole back and legs to smash it down with as much force as he could muster. Animalistic. Primal.

His attack on the car was so savage, John and Bobby were transfixed. Dean smashed the windshield, smashed the driver side window, beat the mirror into fragments, wrenched the door open, beating it until it was deformed, laid into it like a major league batter, wailing on it until it bent back nearly parallel with the hood, kicking it, bending it back, tearing at it with his hands, wrenching it and twisting it until he ripped the door clean off.

He stood there, chest heaving, sucking in air, hands clenched at his sides gradually opening, breath coming slower, until it resumed its normal pace.

When he turned back around to face John and Bobby, it wasn't Dean that looked at them. It was someone far older, harder and infinitely more dangerous, wearing Dean's skin.

Bobby was on the horn calling in every marker he had out there. He spread the word. Spivey and his clan had snatched John Winchester's youngest boy. Every hunter safe house, rest stop, dive bar and diner was open for them. Every hunter dropped what they were doing and put their feelers out. Nobody messed with a hunter's family. And few hunters were as respected and feared as John Winchester.

Within an hour, people were at their door, hard men and women with bandoliers, tattoos and weathered skin, and a brand-new four-door truck.

One man with four fingers on his right hand screwed and hammered the kitchen table back together. Another cleaned the blood off the floor. Others came. The phone rang, on multiple lines, rang nonstop, into the night. Bobby's CB radio was cluttered with traffic. A surprising number of hunters made their living as truckers.

Plans were made. Trails followed. Information floated back to them through the hunter network, information driven out the hard way.

Dean watched it all, face impassive, mind working furiously, taking notes, paying attention, saying nothing.

_Keep it locked down. Don't think of the sight of Sam falling underneath the mass of the four grown men, the four men it took to subdue him. Don't think of what they were doing to him now. Keep it locked down. Stay cold and dead and fucking lethal. _

_Get Sammy back._

Dean refused to sleep until John made it clear that a soldier took rest when he could, because he had to, because an efficient hunting, killing machine needed reset time to keep its reflexes at peak capacity.

So Dean laid down on top of his bed, closed his eyes, and forced himself into sleep. He didn't dream. He told himself not to, and his body, stunned and helpless, obeyed.

In the morning, he awoke without an alarm clock, and pushed his way through the half-dozen strangers in the kitchen. They parted, knowing he was John's eldest, that he was Dean, watching his hard face and steely demeanor.

One brought him a cup of hot black coffee. Bobby pushed a plate of eggs, ham and biscuits with butter in front of him. "Eat all of it, Dean."

Dean complied, like a good soldier, and ate every morsel. Nobody cared that he couldn't taste a damn thing, least of all him.

_Don't think of what they were doing to Sam. Don't. Think of that when you have their bleeding bodies in front of you._

Dean tried not to think. Tried not to count the hours, crawling under his skin, as the day passed from light to dark. Lay down in bed again, fully dressed, and willed himself to sleep once more.

A new morning. More unfamiliar faces, strange people stepping back respectfully as he walked through the house, listening for information, ignoring the chit-chat. The light changed again, brightened into midday, faded again into dusk.

Dean refused to let hope fade, but the disappearance of the light was agony.

Yet another knock on the door, but the response was different. People moved toward the door, voices rose. Someone called for John.

A thin blond man in blue overalls and a bandage on his temple strode through the hallway, handed John a small bag. Dean caught snatches of conversation. "…didn't see who it was…came to, there was a bag on the floor…deliver it to this address or he'd kill my wife…said just drive as fast as you can..."

John pulled out another unmarked videotape.

Every voice in the house fell still.

Every pair of eyes was on John and Dean.

John looked at Dean. "You might not want to watch this."

Dean just stared at him, and refused to leave the room.

John slipped the tape into the VCR.

Sam was bound to a chair in the middle of an empty warehouse, slumped over, hair in his face.

Earle Spivey stood next to him, along with a stocky man in his late forties.

"Hey there, Johnny. Bet you've been wondering what's up. Bet your mind's been going a mile a minute since you strolled in that front door. Ain't it."

John swallowed hard, fists clenched.

"Well, let me fill you in." Without warning, Earle cracked Sam across the jaw. His head rocked to the side, and he roused, eyes bright with pain. "Wakey wakey."

Sam's right hand, taped to the arm of the wooden chair, fluttered.

"Can't go nowhere, son. Already taught you that." Earle looked at the camera again. It was steady this time. On a tripod of some kind.

"I found my boy, Johnny. Saw what you did to him before you killed him."

John's face tensed.

"Really pulled out all the stops. Didn't you. Tortured him a good long time, by the looks of him."

Earle's face twisted. "You tortured. My son. And now I've got your boy. And every little thing you did to my boy, I'm gonna do to yours."

John turned pale, shaking. "Jesus. No. Sam's innocent. He's innocent."

"And here's the thing, Johnny boy. We got some special abilities, you know. Don't know what we're gonna get once we earn that dose of demon blood. It's like a grab bag." Earle's watery blue eyes shone. "And my brother here, he got himself a real interesting one. Show him, Buck."

Buck stood alongside Sam, and with a sneer, moved his finger in a sharp line.

Sam screamed, a hoarse sound like he'd been screaming for hours, straining against the bonds, cords in his neck popping out.

Dean's lockdown nearly failed.

Earle had the audacity to smile. "See, that right there? That's like the fucking cattle prod you used on my Leon. But it don't leave no marks. Don't cause no nerve damage. So you can do it over. And over. And over."

A hand on Dean's shoulder. "You shouldn't be watching this, son." It was Bobby.

Dean laid his hand on Bobby's, squeezed it. "Sam has to take it. I have to watch it."

Sam's hand fluttered again, fingers twitching, tapping, as he tried to breathe.

"Me, I like the old fashioned way, though. Like to leave marks. Like to see the effects of my hard work. So, we been trading off, Buck and me."

Earle tore open Sam's shirt. A collective groan rose from the assembled crowd. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, tried not to see the massive purple-black bruising all over Sam's rib cage, the blood, the lacerations.

"Holy hellfire," Bobby breathed.

"Bet you're wondering what I want, Johnny. What's the ransom? Where's the trap?" Earle laughed, a dry, humorless chuckle that trailed into a cough. "Ain't no ransom. No trap, trying to get you here." Earle nodded to Buck, who motioned with his hand and made Sam scream again, worse this time, a terrible high-pitched sound that went on and on.

"What I want? Is for you to know. What I'm doing to your son. Because of what you did to mine." His drawn face was animated by pure hate. "I want you to see it. Know it's because of you. Know he's gonna get it ten times worse than Leon. 'Cause I'm meaner than you, Johnny boy. And when I'm tired of this, I'm gonna give what's left to Buck." Buck grinned at the camera, in an expression that left no doubt what Earle meant. "And then, when he's all used up, maybe we'll kill him."

Sam stared into the camera, blood on his lips. His right hand trembled and fluttered, straining at the tape, tapping at the arm of the chair. "John," Bobby said. "Take it back."

On the tape, Earle wiped his mouth. "I have to give it up to him, though. I mean, I loved my boy, but he was weak. But Samuel here? He's tough. All we put him through over the past day, he's never once begged us to stop. Not so much as a "Please." Earle grinned. "And I have to say, I respect the hell out of that. 'Course, that's just gonna make it all the more delicious when I finally do break him. And don't you worry, Johnny boy. I'll be sure to send you the highlight reel."

Dean had somehow wrestled most of what made him Dean, the living, breathing functional human being, into a steel box lined with chains, to get him through the hours until he had Sam back safe at his side. But John was barely holding it together.

Earle continued. "See, Johnny, I know you thought you could sleep at night because we're just fucked up, right? Me and mine? Full of demon blood and all? Not quite human? Here's the thing. Leon never took no demon blood." He spat on the floor. "My boy was all the way human, just like you."

John stared in shock.

"You tortured and killed an innocent boy, who was just trying to protect his family. And I'm gonna make you pay for that."

Bobby grabbed the remote control. "John! Are you seeing this?"

John stared at Bobby in horror. "Of course I'm seeing this."

"No, you idjit. Sam's hand. Are you seeing his hand?"

Bobby rewound slightly and hit play.

Sam's right hand. Fluttering. Fingers tapping on the arm of the chair.

"Oh my god. Oh Jesus. Sam." John let out a sob.

Dean missed it. "What?"

John grabbed Dean's hand. "Look at him. Look at his hand. He's tapping out Morse code."

They rewound the tape to the beginning, with the sound off this time, and Dean stared in awe at his little brother, bloodied and bound hand and foot, tapping out his location in between screams of pain.


	12. Hell Hath No Fury

Between the information Sam tapped out in Morse code and the leads the hunter network had squeezed out, John and Bobby felt sure they knew where Spivey was keeping Sam.

Dean didn't even pay that much attention. He had his own plan.

The hunters offered the new truck to them to use, the black one with the nice hard top over the bed, and said they'd pile into their second car and follow them.

Dean wouldn't let them put any gear or weapons in the truck bed. He dragged out the thick blue foam (from what felt like a lifetime ago, when Sammy had tricked out the back of the Impala into an honest-to-god bed) and laid it out. He carried out every spare comforter, pillow and blanket in the house, settling and arranging everything to flesh it out into a comfortable place to lay Sam.

He stood in the corner of the room and listened as the grown men drew up their plan of attack. People often thought Sam was the smart one, but Dean was extremely intelligent. Much smarter than anyone gave him credit for, other than Sam.

So he listened. Evaluated. Strategized.

John tried to give Dean his orders.

Dean stood up, cutting him off. "You all go in first. I'll be behind you." And he would say no more on the subject. But the expression on his face and something unexpected in the tone of his voice, a low thrum of command, made every single person in the room accept his declaration without question.

"That boy is going to be a hell of a leader someday," Bobby said after Dean left the room.

The drive to the location they thought Sam was being held was quiet, but the very air was alive with tension. It wasn't far. Just an hour up the road.

They parked the two trucks out of sight of the abandoned warehouse, and crept up on foot.

Dean held back. Watched them. Then he removed a LHR combat knife from the bag at his feet, deadly sharp and so black it seemed to absorb all light that fell on it, augmented by runes that Dean had scratched into the blade. He secured it to his belt in its quick-release sheath, and tested the safety release that would only let the knife slip free for the person wearing it. He tucked a boot knife into place and made his way silently toward the warehouse.

He peered in a window. Sure enough, Spivey had lied. It was a trap.

John and Bobby were on the floor, guns pointed at their heads. The five other hunters that had come with them were standing or lying on the concrete, bleeding from various places, shame and embarrassment clear on their features.

Sam, wearing only blood-stained jeans, hung by his bound wrists from a hook in the middle of the room, barely conscious. Dean hissed at the sight.

Loud voices. Guns cocked. Dean slipped in, unnoticed in the chaos.

Earle Spivey delivered a wicked hard punch to John's nose. Blood streamed over his mouth.

"Are you really that dumb?" He knelt in front of John. "You didn't think that I wanted to take out what you done on you? Make you pay too?"

John spat in Earle's face.

Earle just smiled, and didn't even wipe the spittle off his mouth. "Just for that, Johnny boy, I'm gonna make you watch this next part yourself."

Dean crawled along the side wall. Observing. Calculating. Boxes, pallets, mechanical equipment. Six of Spivey's clan in all.

Dean pulled the first behind a stack of pallets, breaking his neck without a sound, and laying him down out of view.

Spivey's voice reverberated through the vast space. "You found us sooner than we expected." He chewed his lip contemplatively. "Not sure how you did that."

He finally wiped the spit from his face and smeared it down Sam's ravaged chest. "I was gonna make you a special tape. One you could watch over and over. Watch Buck make your boy into a man. Teach him all kinds of new tricks." John made a low growl. "He's shown the patience of a saint. Held off until I was done with your boy before he got his turn. But good things come to those who wait, ain't that right, Buck."

Buck scratched the patchy beard staining his chin and licked his lips.

Sam stirred, lifting his head, one eye swollen shut, the other blinking in the harsh overhead light. He saw John and Bobby kneeling. The guns. His head dropped, unable to bear the weight of the despair that rushed through him.

Then out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of motion. He glanced left, for just a second.

Their eyes met.

Dean. In the shadows.

Only Dean saw the hope flare on Sam's face. Within a second, he'd damped it down, concealing his reaction to not give Dean away, let his face fall back into abject surrender and pain.

A gloved hand clamped over the second man, pulled back into the shadows silently. This time, Dean used his knife, drew it across his throat, held the man until he shivered and bled out, dropped him to the floor without a sound.

One of the hunters saw Dean drag the man back. He straightened up and yelled, "You keep your hands off him, you son of a bitch!" He lunged for Buck, making a great show of it.

This gave Dean the distraction he needed. Unable to pick the rest of them off from the shadows, he crept up behind a third, one of the ones with a gun. In a blindingly fast motion, he sliced through his Achilles tendons, dropping him like a fish, stunned and flopping, and drove his knife straight into his heart.

The room erupted. Despite their demon-blood enhanced strength and speed, Dean had single-handedly taken out three of them in the space of a few minutes. And that returned the advantage to the hunters.

Sam raised his head up with great effort, eyes locked on Dean.

Spivey bolted for the side door. Dean's boot knife shot through the air, landing dead center between his shoulder blades, severing his spinal cord instantly.

Dean rolled to his feet, did a leg sweep, bringing Buck down hard, and then Dean was on him. A single slash, and Buck's intestines were spilling in long ropes from his abdomen. He screamed, pissing himself. Another slash of the knife, and Buck frantically clutched the bleeding emptiness between his legs, in too much agony to scream or even breathe.

"That's for what you were gonna do to him, you son of a bitch." Dean wiped the blood from his mouth.

He looked up. The other hunters had the last of the Spivey clan. John was standing over the prone, pleading form of Earle. Everyone except Earle was staring at Dean in shock or awe.

"That one, you can have." Dean wiped his knife clean on Buck's jacket and peeled off his leather gloves. One of the hunters pulled out a hunting knife and took care of business.

John and Bobby stood over the prone, pleading form of Earle. Everyone except Earle was staring at Dean in shock or awe. Rising to his feet, he walked to Sam.

"I'm here, Sammy. I got you." Dean positioned himself at Sam's side, reached up and carefully cut the rope attached to the hook. Sam crumpled like dead weight. Dean held him up, brought him gently to the floor in a graceful movement, sliced the rope tightly binding his bleeding wrists together with surgical precision.

"Dean." Sam's voice was wrecked, barely able to force out a sound.

Dean cradled Sam, tears streaming down his face. Sam tried to lift his hand to touch Dean's face, but he was too weak. Dean lifted Sam's hand for him, pressed his palm against his cheek, held it there.

Sam lay in Dean's arms, looking up at him, a smile breaking over his bleeding lips. Dean held his Sammy, strong arms locked around him, looking down at the battered ruin of his face. The love he saw there shattered him.

"We saw it, Sam. Got your message. You did good." Dean's body shook. "You did real good."

Sam sucked in a shallow breath, mouth moving.

"Shhh. Don't try to talk. I'm gonna take care of you. No one's gonna hurt you anymore, Sammy."

Behind him, a scream, a wet crunch and a gurgle, and Earle Spivey was silenced.

Dean wouldn't let anyone touch Sam. He gathered him up and heaved himself to his feet, face twisting into a grimace when Sam shuddered and moaned in pain. He carried his brother in his arms by himself, all the way.

John opened the back of the truck, reached out to take Sam so Dean could jump in and lift Sam inside.

He turned and accidentally banged Sam's head against the door. Sam gave a sharp cry.

The look that Dean shot his father was chilling.

Dean jumped out and simply took Sam away from John. John stepped back, palms extended outward.

Dean placed Sam inside with infinite care, laying him inside, head nestled on a pillow. He settled him down so gently that Sam didn't so much as whimper. John was stunned that Dean could flip from that look of promised violence to such tenderness in the space of a few heartbeats.

He didn't understand they both stemmed from the same, simple thing.

Dean lay in the back at Sam's side, and let John close the door. John climbed into the passenger seat, and Bobby turned the truck onto the road. The hunters piled into their car and everyone headed out. A local doctor was waiting for them in his private clinic to evaluate the extent of Sam's injuries.

Dean was grateful the hunters had lent them this fancy new truck. The suspension in Bobby's truck was punishing, but this vehicle was smooth, absorbing the shocks of the rocks and potholes without transmitting hardly any of it to Sam's broken body.

Dean sat up on one arm, stroking Sam's hair, rubbing his thumb on the one spot on Sam's face that wasn't bruised or bleeding.

Bobby glanced at them in the rear view, and watched them for a few moments.

John turned around and opened the sliding window between the cab and the truck bed. "How's he doing?"

Dean didn't even look up. "Conscious. But barely. Breath sounds good, but he's got at least one cracked rib. Pretty sure his left arm is broken. But he's gonna be alright."

Bobby tapped John on the thigh. "Let him rest, John. Give the boys some privacy."

John slid the window closed and turned back in his seat.

He didn't see Sam open his one good eye and look at Dean. Didn't see what was reflected there. Didn't hear Dean whisper, "I love you so much. So much." Didn't see Sam find the strength to lift his hand, grip Dean's shirt weakly, tug him down with the force of a butterfly until Dean's lips brushed his.


	13. Watch You While You Sleep

Dean held Sam's head up, gingerly brought the bottle of water to his lips. Sam drank gratefully, taking a few sips, then letting his head fall back in exhaustion and pain.

"You rest." Dean wanted to wipe the blood from Sam's face, but didn't want to hurt him, and he knew the lightest touch would sting. Instead, he just lay next to him, their bodies rocking gently with the motion of the truck on the highway,

"S'alright now, Sammy. I'm here. Gonna take care of you. I promise. Gonna fix you up." Sam murmured, blinking up at Dean. "Shhh. Close your eyes."

Sam let his open eyelid fall closed.

"They're all dead. We killed every last one of them." Sam breathed out a soft chuff. His eye opened again, and he looked at Dean with concern. He plucked at Dean's shirt, kitten-soft.

"I'm fine." Dean squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the tears back. Here was Sam, beat to hell, only caring if Dean was ok. "Dad's got a busted nose. Bobby's fine. The others have bruised egos, but I think they're mostly ok."

Dean settled in next to Sam, his head resting on the pillow. He listened to Sam breathe, shallow gasps that made his own ribs ache to hear it, until he couldn't stand it anymore. So he talked to him.

"They tape-recorded it. Breaking in. Grabbing you up. And left us the tape." Sam's eye flew open again. "You put up a hell of a fight, Sam. Three big men on one, and you were winning. That throat punch? Nice move." Sam's mouth twitched in a little smile. "Took four men to take you down. I tell you, I was fucking impressed." Dean petted Sam's hair, trying not to look at Sam's swollen eye, the horrible bruises on his face, the unnatural angle of his left forearm, the thick abrasions on his wrists…

"When we found out you were gone… that they took you… Sam. I went crazy." He took a deep breath. "Should never have left you alone. It's my fault this happened." Sam shook his head, trying to form words of protest in his damaged throat, but Dean shushed him in a gentle voice. "Shhh. It's true. And I'm so sorry, Sam." He looked at his brother's battered face, still so beautiful, and the tears came, hot and stinging. "I'm sorry."

Dean would not allow John to help get Sam out of the truck, or to carry him. In fact, he wouldn't let John get near Sam.

John stood in total confusion. Bobby thumped him on the back. "Hang back. Dean's got this."

And Dean absolutely did. He settled Sam on the gurney, stayed right at his side, talked to the doctor. He refused to leave when the doctor went to examine him.

The doctor gave John and Bobby a quizzical look. Bobby snorted. "Oh, you best not try and get between those two. Dean won't get in your way, though. Just don't try and send him away."

Dean shot Bobby a look of surprised gratitude.

Dean stood at Sam's side as the doctor cut away Sam's jeans and boxers, and examined him. 'S'alright, Sam. We're gonna get you all patched up."

The doctor did a brief examination. Sam winced and broke out in a sweat, shivering. "He's in a lot of pain. I'm going to give him a shot so this next part isn't so unpleasant for him."

He injected a small quantity of painkiller into Sam's vein, and within moments, Sam was breathing easier and more deeply.

The doctor continued his exam. "I don't feel any clear fractures, but I'd like to get a chest x-ray to be sure. His ribs are almost certainly cracked."

He continued, palpating and checking Sam. "He's extremely dehydrated. I'll get him started on a saline drip. He suffered extensive soft tissue damage and abrasions on his upper body. His jaw is badly bruised, and several of his teeth are loose. His nose does not appear to be broken. He got lucky with the eye. It doesn't look like he sustained any real damage. His abdomen is normal, and I don't feel any signs of internal bleeding. Has he thrown up?"

Dean shook his head no.

"That's a good sign." The doctor manipulated Sam's fingers and wrists. "Nothing broken here. Bad lacerations on the wrists. And the left arm is clearly broken. Collarbone looks good."

Most of the physical signs of trauma were located on Sam's torso, but Dean know that half the torture consisted of demon-blood powers that left no mark. So the fact that his lower body appeared relatively untouched meant nothing. Which reminded him to ask something.

"Can you tell… if he was… um…"

"Sexually assaulted? Yes."

Dean went white.

"Yes, as in I can tell if that happened or not. Not yes, as in he was assaulted."

The doctor turned to Sam. "I need to examine your genitals to make sure the people that had you didn't cause you any kind of damage there. Is that alright?" Sam nodded yes. The doctor examined Sam quickly but thoroughly. "Dean, would you help me turn him onto his side, please?"

Dean did, and stood facing Sam as the doctor moved behind him with a small flashlight. "I need to examine your rectal area now. Is that alright?" Sam nodded, burying his face in his forearm.

Dean kneeled so his face was at the same level as Sam's. "So, when we get home, what do you want for dinner?"

Sam peered at Dean, who smiled at him, determined to distract him from what was happening. "Bet I can get Bobby to barbeque."

Sam croaked, "November."

Dean grinned. "Charcoal still burns in November. You want barbeque?"

Sam started thinking about it. "Turkey," he finally whispered.

"Thanksgiving dinner?" Dean had forgotten. With everything else, he had actually forgotten that Thanksgiving was just a week away. "With pumpkin pie? Or pecan?"

Sam took a shallow, painful breath and said, "Yes." And his grin, mischievous and adorable, was pure Sam.

The doctor finished the rectal exam and peeled off his gloves. "No rectal tears or swelling, no trace of semen. He's intact."

Dean breathed a huge sigh of relief.

The doctor examined his spine, and didn't see anything that concerned him.

They lowered Sam onto his back and covered him with a blanket. They wheeled him into the x-ray room, where the doctor did insist on sending Dean outside until the x-rays were complete.

Then he brought them into a large empty room and Dean helped move Sam onto a bed, and help Sam into a medical gown. The doctor inserted an IV and got Sam started on the saline drip.

He brought the developed x-rays into the room and stuck them onto the light box. John and Bobby were brought in the room.

"Sam's left tibia is broken. His ribs are badly bruised and right here on the left, you can see that three of them are cracked. You're going to have to watch him very carefully to make sure he doesn't develop pneumonia. You'll need to keep his pain down as much as possible so he can breathe properly so that doesn't happen.

He turned to Sam and Dean. "Sam, you're going to need to take a deep breath, as deep as you can possibly manage, three to five times an hour. It's extremely important to keep your lungs expanded to full capacity. Otherwise, you could get very, very sick."

The doctor glanced at John. "He's young and strong, so I expect it won't take him long to heal up. But I want him on a fairly serious dose of narcotics for the next three or four days, so he can breathe deep and keep his lungs fully inflated. And I want him up and walking around every day, to keep the blood moving so he doesn't throw a blood clot. But someone's going to have to hold him up and walk with him, because he's extremely weak and he's going to be pretty high, with what I'm going to give you."

He continued. "He's bruised all over his upper body, but there is no internal bleeding or damage." The doctor pulled the x-rays down from the light box, and motioned to the three to join him at the door, out of Sam's earshot. "They worked him over really bad, John. That's clear just from the physical indications. And I know that some of the torture was supernatural in nature, and we don't have any physical signs of what happened there. But what he must have endured, John…" The doctor took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. " I estimate it was fairly severe, because his vocal chords are strained from screaming."

Dean had to turn away.

"He needs to not try to talk for a few days. At all. I want him gargling with warm salt water, and drinking warm tea with honey. The usual."

The doctor set Sam's arm and put a cast on it, tended to Sam's eye, cleaned and bandaged his cuts, and carefully treated and wrapped the deep abrasions on his wrists. By the end, Sam was starting to moan and sweat again, and the doctor gave him another shot for the pain. They agreed to keep Sam overnight for observation, and make their way home the next day, with a pack full of medical supplies and a long list of instructions.

They didn't even bother trying to get Dean to come to the motel with them. The doctor simply wheeled in another bed and set it up right next to Sam's.

The doctor gave them his pager number, and left them alone.

John kissed the top of Sam's head. "I love you, Sam." Sam, high from the pain meds, gave a huge goofy grin and slurred, "Shuh. Took enough to get you to say it."

Bobby laughed at John's obvious discomfiture. "You had that coming." He stroked Sam's hair, leaned in, whispered, "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. I swear."

They left Sam and Dean alone for the night.

Dean kicked his shoes off and sat cross-legged in bed, spoon-feeding Sam vanilla pudding. He refrained from making "Here comes the airplane" jokes, which took considerable effort on his part.

Even with the Dilaudid making him silly and loopy, Sam was still clearly in pain. But he opened his mouth and let Dean slip the spoon into his mouth, swallowing dutifully, until the pudding container was scraped clean.

"Awesome, Sam. Good job."

He turned off the overhead light and settled in next to Sam, his hand resting gently on his chest. He wanted to touch him, take the pain away, but there was nothing he could do.

So Dean talked to him, sweet and soft, touching him with his voice, letting his words drift over him like his fingers could not, stroking and soothing Sam.

"It's always been you, Sam. I can't even remember when I knew. You know, that we were more than." As deep as brother bond could be, Dean had always known it went way beyond that, even when he refused to admit it. And that's how he thought of it. More than. "And when I found out it was the same for you… Christ, Sam. I couldn't even… I mean, I was scared. So scared. But it felt like how Christmas is supposed to feel like."

Sam made a soft, happy sound.

He closed his eyes, remembering the moment Sam smiled at him in just this funny little way that told him, that moment when he knew, unequivocally knew, that Sam also felt they were more than. Inside his chest, it felt like he'd come home from a long, bitter cold trek in the snow to a home full of warmth from the fire, an apple pie in the oven, roast turkey just pulled out, gleaming with butter, being handed a mug of steaming cider, a stack of presents under the tree…

"And when they took you, and you were gone, and I thought… I thought maybe I wasn't going to get you back, and I remembered what I did. What I said to you…the way I left it…" And Dean couldn't hold the tears back any longer. He was a warrior, a soldier, a world-class bad ass, but he was also a scared young man, so desperately in love he could barely breathe.

And the scared young man started to cry.

"Dean." Sam's voice was raspy and weak. Dean tried once more to regain composure, but failed utterly, dropping his head onto the pillow with a sob, hand fluttering Sam's chest, wanting so badly to hold him, absolutely unwilling to hurt him even a little bit.

Sam pressed Dean's hand down over his heart. That simple gesture was too much, and Dean cried into the pillow.

With great effort, and completely against doctor's orders, Sam forced out three more words. "Always. Been yours."

Dean cried until he was dry, his hand over Sam's heart, and Sam drifted into a deep sleep.

Dean lay by his side and kept guard all night, watching him while he slept.


	14. Home Again

Dean woke to the sound of Sam moaning, the effect from the medication having faded.

It was awful.

Dean quickly paged the doctor, and gave Sam one of the oral pain meds the doctor had left for him. "Hey, Sammy. This is gonna kick in real soon. I promise."

Sam opened his eyes. Both of them. The white of his eye was nearly solid red, but the eyelid opened now, and Dean remembered, the doctor had declared the eye itself to be sound.

Sam mouthed "Thank you."

"Real good. You remembered not to talk." Dean smoothed his hand over Sam's head. His hair, Sam's pride and Dean's secret joy, was lank and greasy.

The doctor had already been on his way, and arrived shortly. He gave Sam a bolus of liquid Dilaudid, and examined him, and was satisfied with Sam's progress overnight.

Dean pulled the doctor into the hallway with a serious look on his face. When the doctor learned what Dean was so concerned about, he smiled. "I have just the thing."

He disappeared into another room and came back with an inflatable shampoo basin with attached drain hose, a plastic pitcher and a small bottle of shampoo. He helped Dean move Sam's bed close to the sink, inflated the basin with the air pump, set the drain hose in the sink and turned the rest over to Dean.

Dean ran warm water into the pitcher and positioned Sam's head properly in the inflatable basin. "Gonna get you all cleaned up. Just relax."

Sam let out a soft sigh at the first feel of warm water poured through his hair. Dean was careful not to spill, and shielded Sam's forehead with his hand so that no water ran down into his eyes when he wetted his hairline.

Dean leaned over Sam and worked the lavender-scented shampoo into his hair, rubbing his scalp with his fingertips. Sam closed his eyes. "That feel good?"

Sam raised his right hand and let it rest on Dean's waist, right above his hip.

"Is that a yes?" Dean's mouth softened into a smile.

Sam squeezed.

"Once for yes, twice for no, huh?"

A single squeeze.

Dean worked the shampoo into a rich lather, lingering at the task. It was surprisingly intimate, shampooing Sam's hair. And surprisingly pleasurable for Dean.

He released the clamp on the drain hose, letting the soapy water flow into the sink, and filled the pitcher again, checking the temperature on his wrist to make sure it was just right.

Sam made a happy sound when Dean poured the water over his head. "Bet you could get used to this, huh, Sammy?"

A single squeeze.

"Yeah, princess, well, when you're all fixed up, you better plan on giving me back rubs for weeks."

Sam stroked Dean's side, and mouthed, "Ok."

"How's he doing?" John's voice was a bull in a china shop, a chaperone at a school dance, a cop in a bar full of teenagers.

Dean's hand movements shifted in a subtle fashion from tender to efficient. "He slept pretty good."

"How's his pain?" John moved to stand at Sam's side, and put his hand on Sam's shin.

"He was hurting bad this morning, but me and the doc got him fixed up." Dean looked up. "His hair was really gross. He hates that."

"Mighty nice of you to play spa with your brother, Dean." Bobby stood in the doorway holding a cardboard carrier with four cups of coffee.

"Bobby. You're a lifesaver." Dean took the cup Bobby offered him, pounded back a long drink, then set it aside to finish with Sam. He rinsed Sam's hair with a fresh pitcher of water until it was squeaky clean, then drained the basin and toweled Sam's hair off.

"Give me a hand?" Dean motioned to John to help him wheel Sam's bed away from the sink back to where it had been. They carefully raised the front half of the bed until Sam was sitting up. Dean tried to ignore Sam's winces, even with the hefty dose of pain meds in his system.

Bobby handed Sam a paper cup. "Doubl latte. Low-fat milk, two pumps of pumpkin spice." Sam's grin was positively childlike, surprised and grateful. "Yeah, kid. I remembered.

Sam looked even worse in the light of day. The bruising on his face and arms had deepened to livid red and purple, his hurt eye ghastly red, deep circles under his eyes, lips swollen.

But he smiled at Bobby like it was Christmas day and took a sip of coffee.

Bobby passed John his coffee, and pulled up chairs. A crinkle of paper, and Bobby extracted breakfast for the boys. "Got a cinnamon roll for you, Dean. And Sam, got something special for you." From a small plastic bag, Bobby pulled a jar of baby food.

Sam snorted, then squinched his face in pain.

"Laugh all you want, kid, but I'm serious. Doctor's orders."

Sam stared at Dean. Dean started to laugh. "Face all beat to hell, and you can still pull off a bitch face."

Sam exhaled through his nose, the sound of frustration unmistakable.

Bobby busted out laughing. "Gotcha." He pulled out another item, a plastic bottle containing a protein smoothie. "Here you go. Food you can drink."

John went to confer with the doctor in the hallway. Oddly, he wouldn't discuss Sam until Dean joined them.

"He did very well, so I think it's ok to bring him home. I'll come over every day to check on him and keep you stocked up." The doctor primarily looked at Dean as he spoke. "Remember. He needs to take a really deep breath three to five times an hour when he's awake. You have to make sure to get him to do this, Dean."

Dean nodded, making a list in his head.

The doctor explained the side effects of the oral pain meds, and Sam's dietary restrictions. "Lots of warm tea with honey for his throat. Have him gargle with warm salt water a few times a day. Soft food, no acid. That means no orange juice. Ok? Don't be surprised if he doesn't want to eat much. The pain meds will probably suppress his appetite. But get some soft food in him every day. Mashed potatoes. Macaroni and cheese. Soup. Things he doesn't have to chew, and that won't hurt his throat."

More notations in Dean's mental checklist.

"Get him up once a day and walk him around, so the blood doesn't pool in his legs. Hold him and walk with him when you do this. It's going to be painful with his ribs, but it's very important."

John stood and watched the doctor give his oldest son instructions on how to care for his younger son.

"The pain meds may cause him to have nightmares or trouble sleeping. And, of course, what he's been through."

Now the doctor looked at John. "Don't be surprised if the nightmares are…vivid."

The doctor turned his attention back to Dean. "You two share a room, right?"

Dean nodded.

"If he has nightmares, you need to wake him up—quickly—so he doesn't make his injuries worse. Got it?"

Dean got it.

"He needs rest, and calm, and to breathe deeply." The doctor scribbled on his notepad, tore the page off and handed it to Dean. "That's the schedule I want him on for his pain pills for the first three days. Keep the pain well controlled, so he can keep his lungs working."

The doctor and Dean went back into the room to bring Sam out to the truck, waiting outside.

"I'm right here," John said. "I'm standing right here."

"Dean needs to do this for Sam." Bobby put his hand on John's shoulders. "Let him do this."

This time, Dean wouldn't even let John try to help him get Sam into the nest of foam and blankets in the truck bed. "I got it," he said, barely looking at John. He held Sam in his arms and walked to the back of the truck, setting him down inside and sliding in next to him, supporting his back as Sam scooted himself all the way in using his legs, laying him down gently and arranging the pillows with care.

By the time Dean tucked the comforter around Sam's hips, Sam's eyes were clenched shut with pain, sweat beading on his brow. Dean wiped it off with the bandanna in his back pocket.

"Hey, Bobby." Dean's face was hard. "Drive real careful."

Bobby drove like a Sunday school teacher all the way back, creeping up the drive to his house at five miles an hour so as not to jostle Sam any more than necessary.

"Dean, let me give you a hand with him." John opened the back of the truck and extended his hand.

"S'alright. I got him." Dean extracted Sam in a way that caused the minimum amount of pain to Sam, and strained Dean's back in what must have been a very uncomfortable way. But Dean revealed no sign of discomfort.

John watched Dean carry Sam toward the house.

Bobby appeared at John's side. "You know how the song goes, John."

"Oh god, don't."

"He ain't heavy," Bobby sang in a rasp.

"Please. No more."

Dean and Sam heard none of this. Dean cradled Sam in his arms, Sam's head resting against his shoulder, his breathing coming quick and shallow. "We're home now, Sammy." Dean carried him up the front steps, and over the threshold. "We're home."


	15. Go to Sleep

Dean carried Sam up the stairs and went to lay him in bed. Sam tapped his arm and nodded toward the bathroom. Dean set Sam down in front of the bathroom door and helped him walk inside. "You ok by yourself?"

Sam gave him a look that said he'd have to be a damn sight more broken to require Dean's help taking a piss.

"I'll wait by our room. Knock when you're through."

Sam was in the room a long while.

He finally knocked, and Dean came to get him. When Sam opened the door, Dean swore at the sight of him, pale and sweating, and caught him before he swayed and fell over.

He carried him to the bedroom and settled him into bed as carefully as he could, but Sam still cried out in pain, jerking his broken arm in close to his body and rocking himself, breathing shallow and quick.

"Oh god, Sam." Dean was on the verge of tears. "I'm sorry."

When the pain had subsided, Sam reached up his good hand and touched Dean's face.

"You want to get some sleep, Sammy?"

Dean thought for a moment, remembering what it was like when he'd cracked a rib on his first hunt with John. It was easiest for him to sleep when he was on his injured side, oddly enough, because it let the uninjured side expand better so he could breathe with less pain. But Sam's ribs were bruised on the right side too. Still, probably better for him to try to sleep on the left side at first.

He also remembered how agonizing it was to try to change positions. Shifting more to his front or back caused sharp stabbing pain.

So he came up with a plan, and presented it to Sam. He explained the reasoning behind having Sam sleep on his left, and Sam nodded ok, so exhausted it broke Dean's heart to see it.

At Dean's instruction, he relaxed completely and let Dean roll him, very slowly, very carefully, onto that side, settling the broken arm into place.

Dean, fully dressed, climbed on top of the bed and settled in behind Sam. "I'm gonna lay here with you, Sammy. Make sure you don't move in your sleep and hurt yourself, ok? And if you need to change position, you just whisper it to me." Sam made a soft sound. "I know, you're not supposed to talk, but the notepad thing isn't going to work for this. Just whisper "back" or "stomach" and I'll move you, ok? You just stay completely relaxed and let me do it for you, ok?"

Sam reached for Dean's hand, laying on top of his hip, and pulled it across his chest, brought Dean's hand to his mouth and kissed it. Then he held it to his chest.

"This good?"

Sam nodded.

"Can you do one thing for me?"

Another nod.

"Can you take a deep breath?"

Sam tried. He pulled more air into his lungs, and stiffened.

Dean stroked Sam's chest and nestled closer. "I know, baby boy. Hurts so bad. I remember. But you need to. Can you try again for me?"

And at that, Dean stopped. Remembered what he had said to Sam before he was taken. Treated Sam like a child. Refused to do what Sam wanted from him more than anything, because of a ridiculous notion he had in his head that Sam wasn't mature enough to handle certain things. Worse, he'd basically called him a slut. _Jesus, Sammy. Are you that fucking desperate for it?_ Said and done those things, and Sam had gotten so mad at him. So hurt. And with reason. And because he was so mad and hurt, he stayed behind when Dean talked John into letting Sam come on the hunt. And because of that (and because of what John had done, but that was a whole dark well of anger he wasn't ready to deal with yet) Sam was left all alone, unprotected. And they took him. And hurt him. Hurt him in ways Dean couldn't think about. So scared and alone, enduring terrible pain, with those words practically the last thing he'd Dean had said to him, still echoing in his head when he went to find some memory of love, some reason to keep enduring it. _Jesus, Sammy. Are you that fucking desperate for it?_

Dean buried his face in Sam's hair, sleek and shining now, and took a breath. "Sam," he whispered. "After… after what I did. What I said. I don't have the right to ask you to do anything for me. I know that." He stopped, trying to keep it together. "You must just hate me for that. And Christ, I'd take it back if I could."

Sam brought Dean's hand to his lips again, exhaled against the crook of his thumb. "Shhh."

"No, I need to say it. Sam, I—"

Sam did it again. "Shhh." He moved Dean's hand down, held it to his diaphragm. And then Sam exhaled. Paused. And drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

Dean's fingers flared against the edges of his rib cage, feeling it expand. Sam held his breath, shaking, then stroked his fingers over Dean's, and inhaled even more deeply.

He held his breath for a long moment, then exhaled. His whole body trembled.

"That was so good. You did so good." Dean kissed the back of Sam's neck. "Jesus, Sam. You're so brave." He held Sam until his trembling eased, and he drifted into desperately-needed sleep. And he held Sam some more, until he also fell asleep.

Neither of them woke up when Bobby cracked the door open and stuck his head inside. "Made some soup, you boys want—" He saw the two of them, curled together like cats.

The expression on his face was soft as he turned his head and, ever so quietly, shut the door.


	16. Stay Awake Don't Nod and Dream

The screaming woke Dean.

He should have been prepared for it. The doctor warned them. He should have been prepared.

He wasn't.

The sound that reverberated off the walls and made Dean sit bolt upright next to Sam was like the terrifying one in that book John used to read to him when he was little, that he still remembered almost word for word, so profoundly had it affected him.

_"I don't like that sound," Fezzik said, his skin, for the moment, cold._

_Inigo grabbed the giant and the words began pouring out: "Fezzik—Fezzik—that is the sound of Ultimate Suffering."_

And that was the sound Sam was making now. The scream would have been horrifying anyway—so much pain, so much terror carried in the sound wave—but it was so much worse because it came through a throat already wrecked from screaming. So this scream carried the echo of its thousand brothers and sisters with it.

Sam was rigid on the bed, body bowed, weight supported by only his heels and shoulders, head thrown back, cords of the muscles in his throat standing out. And the scream. It went on, and on, and on.

Then he stopped, sucking in a huge, agonizing breath. And all the air left the room, and Dean couldn't breathe, couldn't move, knowing what was going to happen next.

Sam screamed again, screamed through the agony of his torn throat, screamed through his broken ribs and bruised mouth. This time the scream was darkened by the despair.

"Sam! Sam… wake up. Come on, Sammy. Oh god, please wake up, Sam, just wake up." Dean seized Sam by the shoulders, frantically ran his hands over Sam's face, took hold of his hands, desperate to do anything to save Sam from the nightmare that was savaging him all over again.

Sam didn't feel him. Sam didn't hear him.

The sound of heavy footsteps up the stairs, down the hall, and the bedroom door slammed against the far wall. "Sam!" John fell to his knees by the side of the bed.

Sam's eyes were open, but they saw nothing. Nothing in the actual world, at least. His mouth frozen open, he screamed a third time.

Bobby stood in the doorway, tears welling in his eyes.

John took hold of Sam's face. "Sam. Look at me. Come on. Wake up."

Sam didn't wake up. Just stared into nothingness, his face contorted.

Dean didn't know what to do. He had to do something, and he didn't know what to do.

He pressed his hand to Sam's chest, warm and real, skin to skin, and whispered in his ear, so soft, so quiet.

Sam's eyes fluttered open. He saw Dean. Still half in dream, confused, he stared at him, his expression softening.

"I got you, Sammy. I got you."

Sam watched Dean like he was afraid he was going to vanish in a puff of smoke.

His eyes darted to John, then Bobby.

John gave a weak smile, relief tainted by the fear that still pumped through him at the sound of his boy screaming to wake the dead. "Hey, buddy. You're alright now."

Sam blinked, still half-caught in his nightmare. "You came for me." His voice sounded like his throat had been flayed from the inside out.

Bobby closed his eyes. John stroked Sam's sweat-damp hair. "Of course we did."

Sam turned his face to Dean. "You." His face was grey. "You saved me."

Dean couldn't even speak. He just held Sam's hand, a tear rolling down his face.

Sam opened his mouth again, forced two more words from his abused throat before it refused to make another sound. "Thank you."

Dean glanced over at John. He had tears streaming down his face.

Bobby snort-sobbed from the doorway, and Dean and John stifled involuntary laughter.

"What? We don't all cry pretty." Bobby complained, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

Sam screwed up his face, arched his back with a hiss, clearly in sizeable pain.

"Hey. Hey, Sam. Time for another pill, yeah?" Dean grabbed up the bottle and snapped the lid off.

Sam nodded furiously, eyes closed.

Dean gave him a pain pill and Sam swallowed it gratefully.

John took Sam's hand. "Nobody's gonna hurt you, Sam. You're safe. Ok? They're dead. They're all dead. And your badass brother here killed most of them all by himself." John looked at Dean with quiet, deep pride. "And I don't think you're gonna be able to pry him off you with a crowbar now, so you've got the best bodyguard a man could hope for."

Sam was still caught in the fine tendrils of the nightmare, not catching everything, but Dean noticed the word choice John made.

"And this place is protected now six ways from Sunday. Got some backup. So it's ok to relax now. You're safe."

Sam nodded, but his body remained taut.

His breath was rabbit-fast and shallow. This worried Dean.

"Your ribs. Really hurting, huh?"

Sam nodded, barely moving his head, eyes clenched tight.

Bobby said, "I'm going to make you up an ice pack, Sam. Won't take but a second." He thumped off down the stairs.

"Let's get him sitting up. Might make him feel better," John said.

Dean surveyed John as though deciding whether or not he was going to let John touch Sam.

And he was.

"Ok." Dean slipped his hand behind Sam's back and did most of the lifting, only letting John hold Sam's left shoulder. "Careful of his arm," he muttered.

John was exquisitely careful, but got the distinct impression that wasn't good enough for Dean.

When they had gotten Sam into an upright position, he sighed, clearly more comfortable. But there weren't enough pillows to hold him in the position in which he was most at ease.

Dean had an idea. "Hey, Sam. How 'bout I carry you downstairs, and you can lay back in Bobby's recliner, watch some TV with me? I'll even let you pick what we watch."

Sam's eyes flashed open. He liked this idea. He tapped his right hand on Dean's thigh, once.

"You got it." Dean didn't even let John go through the formality of asking to help. He scooped up his brother like he weighed nothing, lifting him with smooth grace and such care, John couldn't help but marvel at it.

Sam barely even winced when Dean placed his good arm around his neck and picked him up, as though there was no place on Earth more free from pain and fear than Dean's arms.

Dean held Sam in a perfect upright position, the exact position that gave Sam relief from his pain. He carried Sam down the hall and turned at the head of the stairs, angling Sam's back toward the staircase so he didn't bang his legs on the banister.

Dean lowered Sam into the recliner. "Is that good?"

Sam's face radiated gratitude. He took Dean's hand, squeezed it.

"Alright. Whattaya want to watch? Die Hard?" Sam tapped twice. "A Bond movie?" Sam thought about it. Then tapped twice. "Oh, hey… how about Toy Story?" Sam didn't even have to tap once. The look in his face said everything.

Dean grabbed a couple of cokes out of the fridge, cracked Sam's open and put it into the drink holder on the right side of the recliner and popped the tape into the VCR. As the trailers for new movies started playing, Bobby showed up with four bags of frozen peas duct-taped into an elaborate rib pack harness, and laid them carefully on Sam's torso, over his t-shirt. He draped a large, soft blue blanket over Sam. "That's gonna start feeling real good any second now, Sam."

Sam reached out for Bobby's hand as he tried to walk away. Mouthed "Thank you."

Bobby couldn't meet Sam's eyes. "Absolutely nothing to be thanking me for. If your dad and me hadn't—"

"Bobby. Wanna make us all some popcorn?" John's voice was smooth, but everyone but Sam knew that John had cut him off deliberately.

John settled on the far right end of the couch, a beer in his hand. Dean sat on the couch on the far left, trying to hide the expression put on his face by the fact that Sam was three feet away.

John noticed, and stood up. "Let's bring him a little closer." They each took a side and lifted the recliner with Sam in it, setting it down gently right next to the couch, next to where Dean had been sitting. Dean fell back into his seat, much relieved, as Sam was now only separated from him by the thin arm of the couch and the round arm of the recliner.

Sam scrabbled at the blanket, pulled the end free and tossed it over Dean. Dean got the hint, and spread the blanket over both of them.

Bobby brought a massive bowl of popcorn and settled in between Dean and John. Sam drank his coke slowly, smiling at the antics of Woody and Buzz.

Dean slipped a kernel of popcorn into Sam's mouth. "How's that? Hurt to chew?" Sam shook his head no. Dean fed Sam kernel after kernel of popcorn, swigging his own coke, eyes lit up and fixed on Sam, hardly paying attention to the movie at all, just drinking in Sam watching it.

After about 20 minutes, Sam started breathing better.

Dean took a deep breath along with Sam, and realized he'd been breathing shallow in sympathy with Sam since the movie started.

Sam set the half-finished coke in the drink holder, slipped his hand under the blanket, and took Dean's hand in his.

Two minutes later, he giggled.

"And there you go. Pain meds finally kicking in," Bobby said. "Frozen peas too."

Sam giggled again. Took a deep breath, expanding his rib cage, and rubbed his stomach like he was proud of himself.

He turned his head toward Dean, working his hand beneath the blanket again, taking Dean's hand and squeezing it. His face obscured from the view of Bobby and John, he mouthed something Dean hadn't been sure Sam would ever want to say to him again.

Dean felt the warmth bloom in his chest, tears welling in his eyes yet again. He let his mouth form the shape of the words, said them silently back to Sam. _I love you._

As Sam drifted into a blissfully pain-free slumber, Dean thought of the look on John's face when he cut Bobby off. Didn't want him to finish his sentence. _Absolutely nothing to be thanking me for. If your dad and me hadn't—_ Thought of how sweet Sam had been with Bobby and John. How not angry he was.

Then he realized.

Sam didn't know. He didn't know that he was taken on purpose, hurt deliberately, tortured the same ways John and Bobby had tortured Spivey's boy.

Sam didn't know.


	17. Mine

The VCR clicked and whirred into rewind mode, spinning the tape back to the beginning.

Dean wished more than anything he could do that to the last few days. Just rewind to the day he had the fight with Sam. Do it all differently.

But that was impossible.

Sam was dead to the world, sleeping soundly for the first time since they rescued him.

John looked across Bobby to Dean.

Dean shook his head no and pursed his lips into a tight line. "Not now." He didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want to open the door to that locked and chained box inside him where he'd put away the knowledge that John and Bobby had brought this all down upon Sam's head. Even worse, that the demon sympathizer they had interrogated and killed apparently had no demon blood in him after all.

He was human.

Just like Sam.

Dean could not think about that. Certainly couldn't calmly talk about it. And he was damned if Sam was going to find out about it until he was stronger.

He'd been through enough.

John and Bobby moved into the kitchen. Dean sat with Sam for another hour, until his full bladder forced him to get up. "I'll be right back, Sam." He let go of Sam's hand, put another log on the fire to keep the living room nice and warm, took care of his aching bladder, then went into the kitchen.

John and Bobby were deep into Bobby's stash of good Scotch. John poured a generous shot into a tumbler and handed it to Dean.

Dean accepted it, but did not sit down. His face was hard, striving to contain his emotions.

"You gotta know how sorry we are." Bobby looked ten years older, wrinkles more pronounced, eyelids swollen.

John looked up at Dean, and flinched at what he saw on his firstborn son's face. "Dean. Please." He looked so lost, unmoored. "Say you forgive me."

Dean tossed back a swallow of Scotch, burning his throat. "Asking the wrong guy." He jerked his head toward the living room. "He's the one you need to ask." Beg, Dean thought. Beg for forgiveness on bended knee. "Sam's never hurt anything in his life. Christ, he saves stray dogs."

John dropped his gaze to the table.

"What happened to Sam? That's on you two." Another swallow, and Dean's tumbler was empty. "And me. We're responsible."

Bobby looked at Dean quizzically. "Dean, you aren't to blame for what happened to Sam."

"Yeah I am." Dean wiped his mouth. "Just—trust me. I am." _Jesus, Sammy. Are you that fucking desperate for it? _Dean hated himself for that. Hated the darkness he had inside him that came spilling out sometimes when he got scared or mad, the harsh words that stormed right past his inner censors and laid waste to whoever was in his presence.

And he hated himself for letting Sam stay behind. But Sam was so insistent on not going, and Dean thought he'd be safer, secretly had been glad John never let Sam come on hunts.

He left Sam alone, unprotected. And Sam could take care of himself to a point, better than even Dean could have done all alone, maybe. But they were stronger together. And Dean would never make that mistake again.

"But you two… you've got a lot to answer for. Make up for. Not to me. To him." Dean rubbed his eyes. "Look, I get it. What hunters do isn't pretty. And sometimes you have to do things that civilians would never understand." Dean tried to keep a lid on his anger, threatening to corrode the lid keeping it locked away and eat everything in its path. Sam bleeding, broken, screaming. Because of what they did.

He took a deep breath. Not now. "But you fucked up. And they made Sam pay."

It was an odd tableau: a young man standing in front of two contrite adults, chastising them, their heads bowed, guilt and shame rippling off them like heat rising off asphalt.

John poured more Scotch into everyone's glasses. "Jesus, Dean, what they did to him…" He buried his face in his hands.

"Not gonna talk about it." Dean's voice was hard. "Not now. Maybe not ever." He took another drink, already feeling the effects. "But Sam? You two are gonna tell him exactly what you did. And exactly why they took him. He needs to know." And you don't get to get away with it, Dean thought bitterly.

"But he doesn't need to hear it yet. Not until he's healed up some. But you're gonna tell him. Both of you. And you're gonna make it up to him." Dean had no idea if that was even possible. But he was damn sure they were going to try.

And he was going to make it up to Sam. Even if it took him the rest of his life.

The doctor stopped in that evening to check on Sam, as promised. He wasn't happy about the intensity of Sam's nightmare and Dean's description of how Sam reacted physically in the throes of it. "He's going to keep re-injuring himself, and those rib fractures will take longer to heal. And his vocal cords…" He didn't even have to say it. Sam could end up with permanent damage.

He thought for a moment. "Maybe if there's something in the background while Sam sleeps. Something to keep his unconscious mind engaged in something other than reliving his trauma. Music, or television, or the sound of someone's voice. Do you have any books on tape?"

Bobby did not, but there was a library downtown. "I'll pick some up tomorrow."

"Soothing ones, alright? Don't get anything with action or shooting or military stuff. That's the last thing Sam needs in his head right now."

The doctor turned to Sam again. "How does it feel in the recliner? Better than sleeping flat?" Sam nodded yes. "Good. Let's have you try sleeping like this for a while."

Sam made a face, and motioned for his notepad. Dean retrieved it, and Sam wrote, "Want to sleep in bed."

Dean kept his face impassive. He knew that Sam liked having Dean hold him while he slept. More importantly, Dean needed it. Especially now. Being a few feet away, unable to touch him or feel the warmth that radiated off him like a heater, made Dean tense.

"Just try it for a few days, Sam. The more rest you can get, the more quickly you'll heal, and the sooner you can get back to all the things you used to love to do."

Sam glanced up at Dean, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Dean shivered at the hidden meaning.

Then Sam scrawled something else.

"My cast is itchy," the doctor read out loud. Dean grinned.

"There's actually something that can help with that. It's a little weird, but it works." The doctor explained how to use a soda bottle, duct tape and a vacuum cleaner hose over the cast's opening at the wrist to provide relief from the itch. Bobby grasped the idea immediately. "I'm on it." He left to put the contraption together.

The doctor had Sam breathe through a device he called an incentive spirometer. He had marked a level on the side of the plastic tube. "You want this little piece to hit that level there, and this ball needs to float right in the middle. If you breathe in too fast, it'll shoot to the top. If you breathe in too slowly, it sinks to the bottom. Ok?" He pressed a pillow against Sam's abdomen. "Dean, if you can do this for him, it'll help ease the discomfort."

Sam liked the device. He liked things that showed tangible goals with measurable results. Things he could do well on. Sam was a straight A student, and this appealed to him.

He struggled, though, and didn't reach the level the doctor wanted until the third try.

The doctor put a paper bag on the couch. "This has some more meds, and a shampoo basin. He's still too unsteady for showers or baths, and I bet Sam's ready to get clean, so I also gave you supplies for sponge baths. Sam, you'll be able to take care of this yourself pretty soon, but until you can move and bend without so much pain, you'll need someone to do it for you."

John and Bobby looked at each other.

Sam rolled his eyes and wrote on his notepad. "I don't mind. But just Dean."

He showed the message to everyone. John looked relieved. Bobby's face was unreadable. And only Sam caught the flicker that lit up Dean's face. The little flash of emotion that was just for Sam.

Bobby showed the doctor out.

John disappeared into the kitchen and emerged with a steaming mug of soup. "Chicken soup with stars." That was Sam's favorite when he was a little boy. Sam beamed, reaching out for the mug.

John sat next to Sam and arranged the blanket on his lap. "Too hot?"

Sam, lips glistening with soup, shook his head no and took another sip.

Dean jammed his hands in his pockets and made them into fists. He watched John brush a stray lock of hair away from Sam's forehead, and saw how Sam's eyes lit up.

"You were real brave, Sam. And so smart. That Morse code trick. Really, really smart. And pulling it off while they…" John paused. Dean tried not to remember the tape, how Sam tapped out his message while they were hurting him. "Most men couldn't have done it. Hell, I don't know if I would have been able to."

Sam scribbled on his notepad.

"Sam. It took four grown men hopped up on demon blood to take you. You fought like a warrior. I'm so proud of you."

The words hung in the air like the afterimage of a Fourth of July sparkler. Sam gazed into John's face, basking in the moment.

It was the first time Sam had ever received such praise from his father.

Dean tried not to hover, wanting to allow Sam to have this moment with John. But it burned. Knowing that John was so very much to blame for everything Sam had to endure, all the pain and fear, and yet here he was, laughing with Sam like he had just had a bad fall from his bicycle, telling him stories about how he broke his arm as a teenager climbing out on a weak tree branch, making Sam grin like a fool under the wealth of his attention.

Once Sam knew…he wouldn't be smiling at John like he was the best thing in the world.

And despite the jealousy raging in Dean (_he's supposed to look at ME like that only at ME_), that's exactly why he busied himself in the kitchen, and let Sam have that moment, pure and unspoiled.

Dean walked past the couch on his way upstairs, studiously not looking at the two of them, but Sam plucked at his shirtsleeve. His expression was questioning.

"You two do your thing. I've got stuff to do." Dean kept his voice smooth, giving nothing away. But Sam could see right through him. Always could. He plucked at Dean's sleeve again, and didn't let go.

"Don't mean to intrude on your territory, Dean." There was the faintest undercurrent of tension in John's voice. He'd found a tiny cord of reconnection with Sam, and he clearly didn't want to let it go.

As if he'd been quietly watching over them all, Bobby suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway. "John, if you aren't too busy, I could use your help."

Sam gave Bobby a grateful look. Bobby set a glass of water on the coffee table next to Sam, and took away the empty mug. "Get some water in you, wouldja?" He ruffled Sam's hair.

John patted Sam's knee. "You rest up, Sammy. I'll come by and check on you later."

Dean bristled.

When John left the room, Sam wrote something on his notepad and handed it to Dean.

_When I get my voice back, I'll tell him only you get to call me Sammy._

Dean laughed, and sat down on the couch next to Sam. "Yeah, that'd go over well."

Sam wrote three more words. _Your Sammy. Yours._ He looked at Dean intently. Then he underlined yours. Twice.

Dean exhaled hard, letting go of some of the jealousy that roiled in him.

Sam scribbled another sentence. _I feel really gross. Need to get clean. Fresh clothes. Give me a hand?_

"Sure. Anything you need."

Sam wrote one last sentence on the sheet of notepaper. _Better flush this page down the toilet._

Dean imagined what would happen if John fished a crumpled piece of paper out of the waste bin and read what Sam had written. "Yeah, no kidding."

Back in the abandoned warehouse, a piteous figure lay prostate at the feet of another figure. "Please," he whispered. "Please just kill me." Over a day of nonstop torture had reduced Earle Spivey to a gibbering wreck.

"Earle. You haven't begun to make up for what you did. I'm not going to kill you yet."

"Didn't. Know." Spivey gasped. His gasp rose to a scream, twisted off into a strangled sound as the figure with glowing yellow eyes made little motions with his hand.

"Ignorantia juris non excusat. Oh, what, they didn't teach Latin in whatever bumfuck grade school you graduated from, Earle? My sincerest apologies for using my ten dollar words. It means ignorance of the law is no fucking excuse.

"But you should know that already. Papa Winchester didn't know your boy was pure human when he brought out the pliers and cattle prod, and snapped his neck when he was done making him dance. But you tortured his son for revenge, because his ignorance didn't matter." The yellow-eyed demon flicked a finger, restoring air to Spivey's airway, and he sucked in a huge breath. "Of course, we both know you would have done it anyway, even if little Leon had sucked down some demon juice like his daddy. Because he hurt what was yours."

Spivey began to shudder and tried to crawl away. Azazel waved his hand and sent Spivey spinning up into the air, hovering there, all four limbs outstretched like they were tied to four horses.

"And that's what you did to me, Leon. Sam Winchester is mine. He's a very special boy. My special boy. I have such plans for him. And you stole him. And hurt him. Real bad." Azazel's voice disintegrated into a malevolent hiss. "And you don't hurt what's mine."

Azazel sat down in a wooden chair and flicked his finger. Spivey screamed as his limbs were torn from him by the invisible force. He hung in the air, quivering, and suddenly his arms and legs were attached once more, his body whole again. He threw his head back and howled as his limbs were again slowly pulled out in all four directions.

Azazel leaned back and crossed his legs. "Oh, I could do this all day."


	18. Clean You Up Baby Boy

Dean gave Sam another pain pill, and made him drink the entire glass of water. "Hey, before we get you cleaned up, what say I help you walk a little?" Dean remembered his checklist, and that was the one thing he hadn't done for Sam.

Sam looked less than enthusiastic, but nodded ok.

Dean put his arm around Sam and helped him to his feet. "Inside or outside?" It was cold outside, but Sam had been stuck inside all day, so he indicated toward the outside with his head.

"Ok, but we'll make it quick." Dean helped Sam walk toward the door, down the steps and outside along the side of the house.

Their breath was visible in the crisp night air, mouths puffing white vapor like tiny chimney stacks.

Dean held Sam close, walking with him slowly.

Sam shuffled slowly, every step clearly painful for him. He was sore in more places than his ribs. Dean didn't even know what all they had done to him. But he was basically one solid bruise.

Dean held Sam close, his flank pressed to Sam's, walking in perfect lockstep. Sam leaned on him heavily, his hand pressed tight to Dean's waist.

They moved out of the line of sight of the house, past a work shed.

Sam slowed, moved to the side.

He leaned against the cold metal of the work shed, and pulled Dean close with his good hand.

"Sam. Are you sure? You're all messed up."

Sam slipped his hand along the back of Dean's neck, urging him closer.

Dean kissed him.

Sam opened to him like nothing had ever happened. No. Like it had all happened, and Sam had forgiven him. For all of it.

Dean couldn't hold back the sob that spurted out of him, wild and sudden.

Sam stroked his face. Dean rested his forehead against Sam's, body shaking. "Sammy… I… oh god, Sammy."

Sam tipped Dean's face towards his, took his mouth in his again, told him with lips and tongue and fingers that it was ok.

Dean shivered, but it had little to do with the cold.

Sam kissed him like he never thought he would have the chance to kiss Dean again. Like it was a second chance.

Like Dean was his reward.

Dean walked Sam back to the house. Entering it was like diving into a heated swimming pool. The warmth of the fire and the central heating washed over them, stripping the November chill from their skin.

"Hey, me and Sam are gonna go upstairs for a while. Gotta clean him up, get him into some clean clothes.

John walked up and gave Sam a kiss on the forehead. "He take his pain pill?"

Dean gazed at John evenly. "Of course."

Dean snatched up the bag the doctor had left for him on the couch. "Want to try walking up the stairs?" Sam tapped his fingers on Dean's waist once for yes.

And he did it. He walked slowly all the way up the stairs, Dean holding him steady.

By the time they reached the top of the stairs, Sam was sweating like he'd run three miles.

"Christ, Sam, you don't have to impress me." Dean scooped Sam up into his arms, not caring about the expression of protest on Sam's face, and carried him into the bedroom.

Dean ran warm water into the first of two rigid plastic basins the doctor had provided, added a squirt of mild soap, and set a bath sponge inside.

Then he flushed the note Sam had written down the toilet.

He carried the first basin back to the bedroom, setting it on the end table. He filled the second basin with warm water with no soap, added another sponge and set it next to the first. He lay a stack of clean towels on the bed next to Sam, and unfurled a thick, soft blanket.

He turned to shut the bedroom door…and noticed something different.

There was now a deadbolt on the inside of the door.

He stared at it for a moment.

Sam stared at it too, with a questioning expression.

Then Dean turned the knob, and the deadbolt snicked into place.

"Ok, Sam, you ready?"

Sam grinned up at him, looking both happy and a little shy.

Dean laid towels out on the bed, and helped Sam to lie on top of them, on his stomach. Sam hissed at the movement, and lay flat, panting, until the pain subsided.

Dean wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"Ok. This part might kinda suck." He stretched Sam's arms overhead and pulled his sweatshirt off. The movement pulled Sam's ribs, and he cried out.

"Sam, you're wearing button-front shirts from now on until you're better and that's that." Dean blew out his breath, shaking a little.

Dean carefully pulled Sam's sweatpants and underwear off, tugged his socks off, and tossed them all in the laundry along with his socks. He pulled the warm blanket over Sam, making sure he was completely covered.

He moistened the sponge in the warm water and stroked the soapy sponge along Sam's back, trying not to notice the livid marks and wonder what caused them, stretching his arm out, cleaning his armpit, which made Sam laugh—and that made him swear wordlessly, breaking into a sweat again that made Dean have to redo his forehead.

Dean sponged Sam's left deltoid and bicep, trailing lightly along the mottled bruises, skipping the forearm encased in the cast, and cleaned off his hand. He repeated this with clean water, and every so gently dried Sam off with the clean towel.

He pulled the blanket to the side, so he could do the left side of Sam's ribs. Seeing the visible damage, the skin a solid, angry purple, Dean cursed under his breath. Gently, so gently, he swept the sponge along Sam's cracked ribs, barely touching his skin.

Sam turned his head to watch Dean, following Dean's every move, reassuring him with his eyes that it was ok. That he was grateful.

Dean barely touched his ribs with the towel, and pulled the blanket back over so Sam wouldn't get a chill. The last thing Sam needed was to catch a cold.

He moved the blanket off Sam's left leg. When he moved the warm, wet sponge down his thigh, Sam shifted a little. When he moved it toward the center, along the inner thigh, Sam made a little sound.

"You ok?"

Sam's cheeks were flushed. He nodded.

Dean's hands shook a little. He repeated the process with the clean-water sponge and dried Sam's leg off.

When he did Sam's left foot, Sam squinched his face up tight, trying not to laugh.

"You always were ticklish." Dean was rougher here, knowing that this would tickle less, and seeing that his feet were unscathed, so he did not have to worry about hurting him.

Dean repeated the same process on the other side. Again, when he hit the inner thigh, Sam squirmed a little, and his breathing changed.

Dean bit his lip.

"Ok, Sam. Gotta move you onto your back."

He pulled the blanket off, lay down on the bed next to Sam, drew his upper leg over Sam's left thigh, brought his right hand along Sam's chest, held him close to his body, and in one smooth movement, rolled himself and Sam over.

Sam stared up at him like he was magic.

"Did that hurt?"

Sam shook his head no, in absolute wonder.

"Awesome."

With Sam on his back, it was clear to see. Sam was fully, gloriously erect.

Dean licked his lips.

"Right. Gotta… yeah, need to finish this. Ok." Dean tugged the blanket up over Sam to keep the chill off, leaving his chest exposed.

Sam watched Dean, a curious expression on his face.

Dean moved the sponge over Sam's face, cleaning it delicately. When he'd used the clean-water sponge and toweled his face dry, he moved on to Sam's chest. When he passed the sponge over his right nipple, Sam made a soft sound.

Dean swallowed.

He continued with his doctor-appointed task, brushing the sponge over Sam's skin. He passed the sponge lightly over Sam's left nipple.

Sam bit his lip, watching Dean.

"Sammy…" Dean breathed.

Sam laid his right hand on Dean's arm. Tapped once. For yes.

Dean dipped the sponge in the warm water again, tugged the blanket down lower, wiped the sponge along Sam's stomach. It fluttered at the touch.

He wiped Sam's stomach clean, took up the clean-water sponge, wiped him clean again, and stroked the towel across Sam's skin.

Sam's breathing quickened.

Dean tugged the blanket lower. Sam's cock popped into view. Hard, perfectly sculpted, curving gently towards Sam's belly.

"So beautiful." Dean didn't even know he'd said that out loud until he saw the expression of pleasure and pride break across Sam's features.

Sam moved his right thigh up, giving Dean a better view.

"You like it when I look at you."

Sam blinked, a slow flutter of his long eyelashes, and lay his hand on Dean's. Tapped once. For yes.

So Dean looked. He didn't see the bruises marring Sam's skin, livid red and purple on his thighs, chest and belly. He saw only Sam, the impossible sleek beauty of Sam, back home with Dean where he belonged, warm and safe in his bed, opening himself to Dean's gaze, so clearly, so visibly wanting him.

"Jesus, Sammy."

Sam bent his knee, stretched it up higher. Tapped once for yes.

Dean dipped the sponge into the warm water again. Drew the dripping sponge over Sam's cock.

Sam gasped, instinctively arching up as he always did when Dean so much as ghosted his fingers over him—and winced as the sharp pain shot through him.

"Gotta keep still, baby boy."

At the sound of that endearment, that command, Sam's eyes went dark. He slowly, carefully, moved his arms up, not over his head and crossed at the wrists like he might have done before, but bent at the elbow.

The other way was too reminiscent. And they both knew it.

Dean licked his lips again. "Gonna hold real still for me? Don't want you to hurt yourself."

Sam nodded, eyes never leaving Dean's face.

Dean ran the sponge between Sam's legs, rubbing gently.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, breathing fast. Then he opened them again. Moved his hips slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to convey his meaning.

"That feel good?"

Sam nodded.

Dean dipped the sponge in the water again. Moved it between Sam's legs, warm water dripping over Sam's balls, down the crack of his ass.

Sam bit his lip and thrust his jaw into the air, trying his best to lay still.

Dean worked the sponge harder, stroking Sam's cock, moving it between his cheeks, pressing with his middle finger right against Sam's hole.

Sam gave a soft moan.

"Shhh, baby boy." Dean lay down next to Sam, and sealed his mouth over Sam's lips. Sam licked up into Dean's mouth like he was starving for it.

Dean kissed Sam for a long, long time, like he needed nothing more. Finally, Sam made a low whine and pushed up into Dean's hand.

"Don't want to hurt you," Dean whispered.

Sam ran his right hand through Dean's hair, and whispered, "Need you."

And Dean melted. Held Sam's face in his hands and kissed him slow and sweet. The faint tinge of blood spilled over his tongue from Sam's cracked lip, but Sam held the back of his head hard, and would not let him go.

With great effort, Dean pulled free. "Gonna take care of you." He kissed Sam's throat. "Always take care of you."

He slid down, settled between Sam's legs.

Sam brought his right hand to his mouth and bit down on the meaty part of his index finger as Dean took the head of Sam's cock into his mouth.

He kept his mouth soft and wet for Sam, all yielding, silken flesh and luxurious swipes of his tongue. He groaned at the taste of him, lapping greedily at the beads of pre-come rising from the slit one after another.

Dean lay between his little brother's legs and worshipped his cock. Every slow rise and fall of his mouth was like a prayer murmured to God thanking him for returning Sam to him, every slow, languorous lick of his tongue a hosanna. His warm breath, his fingers stroking Sam's thighs, his soft moans, a litany of fervent praise.

And Sam, stretched out for his big brother, his Dean, let the pleasure rise through him, beating back the pain like it was a tiny gnat, nothing to him now. He knew nothing but the glorious feeling of Dean's mouth on him, Dean's hands on him, anchoring him to this world, keeping him safe, sparking such intense pleasure in him that he could only remember three words: love, and Dean, and please.

"Wanna make you come for me, baby boy. Come in my mouth. Need to taste you so bad." Dean's whisper sank through Sam's skin, moved beneath the surface and set it all off. Sam gasped, hands digging into the blanket, teeth clenched, trying to stay quiet as he fell apart beneath Dean, trembling as he came in Dean's mouth, flooding over Dean's tongue in pulse after pulse, bitter and sweet and better than anything.

Dean moaned, and swallowed, and swallowed again, taking Sam inside him like a sacrament.

Sam pulled at Dean's shirt. His eyes were wide. "Please," he whispered in a cracked voice.

Dean stripped his t-shirt off, squirmed out of his jeans. Green-striped tube socks still on, he straddled Sam's hips, spat into his hand, and stroked his cock.

Sam stared up at him, rapt, face so full of love that Dean could hardly bear it. Didn't deserve it. He worked his cock hard and fast, shuddering, then rolled his fingers over the crown once, twice, three times and was spilling over his hand, shooting onto Sam's chest and stomach, whispering Sam's name.

After his vision returned to normal, Dean lay alongside Sam and cleaned him off again with the sponge.

Sam's eyes were clenched tight, his breathing labored and shallow.

"I hurt you. Oh god, I hurt you."

Sam's eyes flashed open, and he frowned at Dean. Raised his hand to Dean's chest and thumped twice for no.

"Is it… is it laying flat?"

One big thump for yes.

"Ok, let's get you dressed, and I'll take you down to the recliner."

Sam looked mournful, but tapped once for yes. He wanted to sleep next to Dean, but the pain was too severe.

Dean dressed Sam in clean underwear, wool socks and soft plaid pajamas. He put on clean boxers, sweatpants and a sweatshirt.

He brought Sam to the bathroom and let him pee in private, and they brushed their teeth in the sink together.

Just to be safe, he carried Sam downstairs.

John was already in bed, but Bobby was at his desk poring over an old book of Japanese text. He watched Dean settle Sam into the recliner.

Dean went upstairs to grab all the bedding, and found Bobby adding more wood to the fire. "Damn cold tonight. This should help."

Dean covered Sam with two thick blankets, and put a pillow behind his head, and set the recliner back at the exact angle that Sam had liked best. "How's that?"

Comfortable, warm, but locked into an island of brown vinyl, Sam gave a melancholy smile, full of gratitude, tinged with pain, and aching with sadness.

Bobby cleared his throat. "Made you two some warm milk." He held two ceramic mugs out.

He gathered up his books as Dean settled himself on the couch, getting as close to Sam as he possibly could.

"Night, boys." Bobby turned off the lights, and let them drink their warm milk alone in front of the fire. They had barely finished when their eyelids got heavy and they fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, they awoke to a cold fireplace, the sounds of John bustling around the kitchen making bacon and eggs, and no Bobby.

He showed up after everyone had finished breakfast. "John, could you give me a hand?"

John went out to the truck, and they came back carrying a large piece of furniture.

Bobby directed John to set it down in the living room.

It was a wide, two-cushion reclining love seat.


	19. Flashback

Dean and John wrestled the love seat recliner up the stairs and into the boys' room. The room was big enough to accommodate it and the bed, with plenty of room to move around.

John didn't even question why Bobby got a recliner that could sleep two. Sam needed to get as much rest as possible, and he always slept better when Dean was right next to him. Ever since Sam was a baby, he liked to sleep with Dean, curled up in his arms or even just touching his foot to Dean's leg. And that never stopped. So if Sam had to sleep in a recliner, it had to be big enough to hold Dean too.

It was perfectly normal.

After Sam finished his hot tea with honey, Dean buttoned Sam up in a warm parka and brought him outside for a little walk to keep the blood moving in his legs, as the doctor had requested.

This time, Dean noticed something that wasn't there the day before, when he'd taken Sam for his walk.

Two RVs were parked amidst Bobby's vast collection of junkers. A gray-haired man in a thick woolen sweater sat on a folding chair in front of one, a card table in front of him, cleaning his guns. He snapped to attention at the sight of them.

Dean recognized him. He was one of the hunters that accompanied them on the rescue mission. The one who created a diversion for Dean.

Sam looked to Dean, and was satisfied by Dean's reaction that this man was allowed to be there. He gave him a small nod, and Dean raised his hand by way of greeting.

The man rose to his feet and saluted them.

Two more hunters, a man in his forties and a teenage girl, both with striking red hair, emerged from the RV. They just looked at the boys, but didn't speak.

"Hey." Dean didn't recognize these two.

The girl, about Dean's age by the look of her, said, "We did a sweep less than an hour ago. Yard's clear. But we'll cover you."

Sam looked stunned.

"We're good. But thanks."

The man spoke. "Bobby's orders. You leave the house, we go with you."

Sam looked at Dean, his questions clear as day.

"I don't know, Sam. We gotta ask Dad and Bobby."

Dean walked with Sam past the metal shed. With their unexpected bodyguards, Dean was unable to pull him around the side and kiss him soft and sweet like he had planned.

Sam walked slowly, sweat beading on his forehead, cheeks a blotchy red from the cold and the exertion. His foot slipped on a rock, causing him to twist to the side. He made a muffled sound of pain.

"Jesus, Sam." Dean kicked the rock out of the way. "You ok?"

Sam nodded, and straightened up, walking in the direction they had been going.

"Uh-uh. Back to the house."

Sam gestured forward with his head.

"Sam."

Sam frowned and tapped twice on Dean's arm.

"You really want to keep going?"

Sam nodded.

"Always were stubborn," Dean said with a soft smile. He supported Sam as they walked. Sam seemed to be enjoying being outside. They continued to the end of the salvage yard.

There was a new vehicle parked there as well. A white van, with another hunter sitting in front holding a shotgun.

"Come on, Sam. Let's go back."

Sam tapped once for yes.

Back inside, Dean settled Sam back in the recliner in the living room, and gave him a pain pill. "I'll go find out what's going on."

He found John and Bobby in the library, up to their elbows in books.

"What's with the Rainbow Gathering outside?"

"I told you. We got backup. For protection."

"What do we need protection for? We killed every last son-of-a-bitch that laid a finger on Sam. Got the whole damn nest."

"You got the whole damn nest, Dean." John gave Dean a smile that combined pride and embarrassment. "If it hadn't been for you… You saved your brother. You saved all of us, too."

"You're a legend now. The entire hunter community's talking about it."

Dean was startled. "Really?"

"Oh yeah. Son, you're famous." Bobby thumped Dean on the shoulder.

"Hmm." Dean pursed his lips. "Ok, so what's the deal with our new bodyguards?"

John rubbed his jaw. "The demon sympathizers may be gone, but there's a demon out there that's gonna be pretty unhappy we took out that nest."

Dean closed his eyes. He hadn't even thought of that. "Shit."

He thought for a long moment. "Sam isn't ready to know the whole thing yet. I'm just gonna tell him the demon might be coming after us for killing his pets. Leave the rest out. For now."

"How's Sam doing?" John shut the heavy book in front of him.

"No nightmares last night. But…" Dean paused. "He's really hurting. Like, bad. He's full of pain pills and still…"

"A good long soak in a tub full of Epsom Salt'd make him feel a hell of a lot better. Help his breathing too. Think you can get him into a bathtub?"

Dean pondered that. Sam was stronger today than he had been yesterday. And he would do anything to make Sam feel better, help him heal quicker. "Yeah. I can do that."

Dean headed toward the living room. The sound of John's voice stopped him.

"Dean. We're going to have to ask Sam to tell us about it. Soon."

Dean didn't turn around. "Doctor says he can try talking tonight."

He didn't want to make Sam talk about it. Wanted Sam to forget every second. But he knew his father was right.

Dean filled Sam in on the reason for the armed guards outside the house. Sam nodded, but did not seem inclined to ask any questions. Sam's face lit up when Dean told him he was going to help him take a bath. Sam had always loved taking baths.

Bobby filled the huge claw-foot tub with warm water and dumped in a small box of Epsom Salts, swirling the water with his hand until it had all dissolved. "All yours, kids."

Dean undressed Sam and brought him to the side of the tub.

Sam's face froze at the sight of the steaming water.

"I checked the temperature. It's not too hot."

Sam still looked nervous, his eyes huge.

"Dude. I'm not gonna drop you. I promise. I'll help you in nice and slow, ok?"

Sam swallowed, and looked at Dean. His face was so open, so hopeful. He wanted to do this for Sam, make him feel nice.

So Sam allowed Dean to help him, ever so carefully, into the water.

Sam gripped the edge of the tub. As the water closed over Sam's legs, he started to shake.

"It's alright, Sam. Just lay back. Gonna feel better real soon."

Sam forced himself to lay back, knuckles white from the death grip he had on the tub.

The water rose to Sam's chest. And suddenly Sam was a flurry of motion, tearing himself from the water, pulling himself out of the tub along with a wall of water. His feet slipped on the wet floor and he went down hard on his right side, but didn't stop moving, scrabbling along the tile, until he was in the farthest corner of the bathroom.

"Sam?" Dean dropped to his knees. "Sammy. What's wrong?"

Sam's hands fluttered against the wall, pressing, lifting off, in frantic motion. He curled in on himself, then straightened with an agonized cry. His chest spasmed, hyperventilating.

"It's ok, Sam. I'm right here. I got you."

Sam gasped, "Can't. Breathe." His voice was practically non-existent, his vocal cords still wrecked. He tried to take a deep breath, but the pain in his ribs prevented him. His panic escalated, and he stared at Dean with terror in his eyes.

Dean didn't know what to do. He held Sam's hand.

Sam squeezed Dean's fingers hard. "Dean. Help."

"You're ok," he kept saying. "You're ok." But it wasn't helping.

Sam trembled violently. "Dying." His eyes searched Dean's face. "Dying."

Dean kicked the bathroom door wide open. "Dad! Bobby!" he hollered. "Help!"

John was up the stairs and skidding to a stop in the bathroom less than a minute after Dean first started screaming for help. Bobby, huffing, was right behind.

Sam was frantic, gasping for breath, his left hand clutching his heart, the other locked onto Dean's hand. He looked at John, and mouthed, "Help."

"What happened?"

"He got in the tub. He was fine. And then he just freaked out and pulled himself out. Started saying he couldn't breathe, he was dying…"

"Sam." John kneeled next to Sam, "You're ok. You're just having a panic attack. You're not going to die."

His words did nothing.

John slapped Sam hard across the face.

Sam didn't snap out of it. If anything, it only increased his agitation.

But Dean stopped breathing. His vision went red.

The next thing he knew, John was flat on his back, bleeding from the nose.

Dean shook with barely restrained fury. "The fuck were you thinking?"

"Christ, Dean, I was just trying to—"

"You don't hit Sam. Ever." His face was hard. "You don't fucking touch him."

He turned his back on his father and cradled Sam, stroking the side of his face where John had slapped him, fingers caressing the livid mark of the palm print John had put there.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry." His voice was thick with emotion.

Sam clutched at Dean's shirt. "Dean."

Bobby disappeared, came back moments later with a paper bag. "Have him breathe into this." Dean pressed the bag to Sam's mouth. Within a few minutes, Sam had stopped hyperventilating, but was still in a blind panic, because he still couldn't breathe well, as the fall on the wet floor had tweaked his ribs yet again.

"Have him breathe with you, Dean. Count it off. Two counts in, two counts out." Bobby threw a clean, wadded-up handkerchief onto John's chest. "You. Come here."

Bobby stalked out of the room into the hall. John clambered to his feet and followed,

Bobby stalked out of the room into the hall. John clambered to his feet and followed, dabbing at his bleeding nose with the handkerchief.

.

"Before you even think of giving me a lecture—"

"You made the wrong call."

John's face was flushed with anger. "He was having a panic attack. I was trying to get him to snap out of it!"

"A normal panic attack? Sure. But your boy was just beaten and tortured for two days and you really think slapping him around is gonna make him snap out of it?"

John opened his mouth…and closed it.

"He was clearly having some kind of post-traumatic flashback—and you went and made it worse. He's laying on the floor begging for help, and his daddy comes and hurts him some more. Nice job, John. Good one." Bobby was furious, eyes narrowed to tiny points. The sight of that anger directed at him from affable, mild-mannered Bobby stunned John into silence.

John stared at the far wall, and exhaled. "Yeah. That was the wrong call."

"Now get the hell downstairs and call the doctor. Do something that'll actually help your boy, for a change."

Bobby went back to the bathroom. The boys were breathing in tandem now. "He doing better?"

Dean nodded. His face was wet, but not from the bath water.

"What do you say we get Sam into some dry clothes and get another pain pill into him?"

"Yeah. Ok." Dean looked almost as exhausted as Sam.

"I'd like to give you a hand with that. If that's ok with you, Dean."

Dean looked up at Bobby's request. "Sure. You can help."

Bobby knew exactly what Dean left unsaid.

Bobby and Dean helped Sam to his feet. Dean dried Sam off, and together they dressed Sam, limp and still panting, in clean dry clothes. Bobby sucked air in through his teeth at the sight of the violent bruising all over Sam's body, turning purple and green.

Dean lowered him onto the reclining love seat, and draped a blanket around him. "Be right back." Sam just shivered and pulled the blanket close around him.

Dean threw an armload of towels onto the lake of water on the bathroom floor, and stripped off his sodden jeans and boots, putting on dry sweatpants, socks and his sneakers. When he emerged, Bobby was there with Sam's pain pills, a glass of water and two mugs of steaming liquid. "It's just chicken broth from powder."

Dean blinked in gratitude. "You're the best, Bobby."

Sam took a sip, his hands shaking so hard he barely avoiding spilling it all over himself. Dean took a drink and set his on the table.

He sat next to Sam, took the cup and held it to Sam's lips. When Sam had drank half the contents, he set it down and gave Sam a pain pill, bringing the water glass to his lips and helping him drink.

Dean draped his arm over Sam's shoulders. Sam tilted his head toward Dean. Dean picked up the notebook from the end table and put it on Sam's thigh.

Bobby sat on the edge of the bed, facing them.

"Sam. What happened?"

Sam shivered again. Stared at the notepad. Finally, he picked up the pen and wrote something.

When Dean read it, he closed his eyes and wouldn't open them for a long moment. "Oh god. Sammy."

Dean handed the notepad to Bobby, and curled himself around Sam, holding him as close as he could without hurting him, burying his face in Sam's shoulder.

Dean started to cry, trying hard to hold the tears back.

Sam whimpered, and held onto Dean, stroking his hair. When he realized that Sam was trying to soothe him, Dean burst into sobs.

Bobby read the note, and turned pale.

_They nearly drowned me. Stuck my head in a bucket. Over and over._

Bobby left the boys' bedroom and shut the door behind him. He walked slowly down to the kitchen.

John sat at the table, a bag of ice pressed to his nose. He glanced up at Bobby. "Doctor's on his way. Be here in an hour."

Bobby handed the note to John.

John read it. Dropped it to the table. Stared up at Bobby in shock.

"Yeah." Bobby's voice was grim.

"That… the bucket… that's exactly…"

"Exactly what we did to Spivey's kid."

"But… he was dead. We left him dead. We made sure."

"Yep." Bobby rubbed his mouth. "So how the hell did Spivey know exactly what we did to him, if he wasn't alive to tell anyone all the details?"


	20. Save a Prayer

The doctor checked Sam out thoroughly, concluding with listening to his breathing.

He set his stethoscope aside and took Dean and the adults into the kitchen."He's reinjured his ribs. And I'm hearing a little crepitation in his breathing."

"What does that mean?" Dean took the lead.

"It means he's probably developing pneumonia."

Dean looked worried. "You said that was bad."

"That's very bad."

"So, we up his pain pills so he can breathe more deeply?" John interjected.

The doctor shook his head. "Clearly, it's tremendously painful for him to breathe, but I'm reluctant to keep him on such a high dose of painkillers. There's the problem of immediate addiction. And the human brain isn't fully formed until the early twenties. Heavy use of narcotics while his brain is still developing might make him susceptible to addiction years in the future."

Nobody spoke.

"What I'm saying is this: If he doesn't improve substantially by Friday, you may need to admit him to a hospital."

The doctor handed Dean a bottle of pills. "That's the most powerful antibiotic I have. This may buy him enough time."

The doctor examined John's nose and declared it to be unbroken. And didn't ask questions.

Dean insisted on walking him to his car.

"How bad is it, if he does develop pneumonia?"

"He'll be very sick. Very, very sick. He may need to have fluid drained from his lungs, or surgery to clear out the infection, and he could lose lung capacity permanently."

Dean looked at the ground. "Could he die?"

The doctor removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's young and strong. But yes. That is a possibility."

He put his hand on Dean's shoulder. "I understand the resistance to bringing him to a hospital. But if you love Sam, you need to protect him. If he's not breathing better by tomorrow nigh..."

Dean nodded.

"Sam's counting on you."

Dean stood up straight. "I know."

Dean walked back inside and past John and Bobby without a word, busying himself heating apple cider in a saucepan and making instant mashed potatoes.

Nobody said anything for several minutes.

Dean stirred butter and salt into the mashed potatoes. John cleared his throat, and spoke. "That was wrong of me, Dean. I'm so sorry."

Dean spoke with his back turned. "To him. You say that to him. Not to me."

"I will. But I need to say it to you too. I… Dean, I was trying to help him. I know you don't see that, but—"

"But what? It's just another in a series of bad calls." Dean poured the apple cider into a mug and turned the burner off.

John was stunned into silence.

"I'm going to take care of Sam from now on." Dean's voice was calm and steady. "Just so we're clear on that."

"Dean—" John began.

"I've been doing it most of my life anyway." He turned and looked directly at John. His green eyes were cold and utterly determined. "I'm just making it official."

Dean left the room with the bowl of potatoes and cup of cider, and went upstairs to Sam.

John rubbed his eyes. "Jesus. I'm losing both of them."

Bobby watched the figure of Dean walking up the stairs, careful not to spill the warm cider. "Just… leave 'em be for a while, wouldja?" Dean shut the door to their room, and Bobby thought he could hear the sound of the door being locked. "Maybe they'll come around."

"Hey, Sammy. Brought your favorite." Sam stirred, groggy from the pain medication. "Got some new pills for you. Gonna make your lungs feel better. But you can't take them on an empty stomach, ok, so I need you to get down as much of this as you can."

Dean set the bowl in Sam's lap and put the cider on the table next to him. "I could totally spoon-feed you. If you're into that."

Sam's mouth curved into a little smile.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

Sam picked up the spoon, and shook his head no.

"Too bad. I kinda liked it."

Sam took a big bite, smacking his lips deliberately.

"Gross."

Sam paused, closing his eyes.

"That good, huh?" Dean's face fell a little.

"It's good. Just feel kind of sick." Sam's voice came in a whisper.

"Hey. Hey. It's ok. You don't have to talk."

"Want to."

Dean handed Sam the warm cider. "This might help."

Sam took a drink and sighed, soothed by the warm liquid. He eyed the bowl of potatoes warily.

"I'm serious, dude. I'll spoon feed you. I don't mind."

"I'm not a baby."

Dean was silent for a moment. "No. You're not a kid."

Sam took another bite.

"Sam, I'm sorry."

Sam looked up at him. His eyes were bloodshot, eyelids heavy with fatigue and pain.

"I treated you like a little kid. And you're so much… I mean, you just…"

Sam laid his hand on Dean's leg. "Not now," he rasped.

"Sam. You're more mature than I am."

Sam gave Dean a sweet, sad grin. "Finally got that, huh?" His voice, what little of it there was, was already fading into grit and shadow.

"Yeah." Dean didn't even accept the invitation to banter. "I finally got it."

Sam forced himself to swallow another spoonful of mashed potatoes. "When I'm better. Let you make it up to me." His breathing was shallow. So shallow.

Dean ran his fingers through Sam's hair, unable to stop touching him. "When you're better, Sammy, I'll give you anything you want."

Sam lowered the spoon to the bowl, tilted his head to the side like a quizzical puppy.

"Not gonna hold anything back, Sammy. Whatever you want. All of it."

"You promise." Sam trailed his fingertip along Dean's thigh.

"Yeah."

Sam made a little circle with his fingertip, and peered into Dean's face with a hint of mischievousness. "You swear on pie?"

Dean laughed and took Sam's hand in his. "Yeah. I swear on pie."

Sam looked down for a second, then back up, eyes searching Dean's face. "Can I—"

"Yes. Whatever it is, yes."

"Don't you even want to know?" Sam's voice was a mere whisper now. He took another sip of cider.

"Sure."

"What if I want to… um, be inside you?" Sam's face turned bright red, but he met Dean's glance without squirming away.

"Holy fucking hell, Sam." Dean blew out a breath. "Dude, you better get well fast."

Sam blinked slowly, and took another bite of potato. "'S that a yes?"

"Yes. That's a yes. That's a huge yes. And would you shut up already? You're killing your voice."

Sam mouthed, "Yessir."

Dean groaned. "Don't even do that to me, Sammy. I can't even.."

Sam picked up the notepad, scrawled, "like it when I call you sir, huh"

Dean shook his head. "Unbelievable."

Sam wrote, "Duly noted. Call Dean sir, watch him get all hot and bothered. Check."

"Are the pain meds kicking in or something?"

Sam giggled.

"We're totally saving a couple of these for when you're all healed up, Sammy."

Sam grinned.

"Now finish your potatoes, so you can take the antibiotics and get better."

"Yessir," Sam whispered.

"You're in so much trouble."

Sam ate all his food, and swallowed the large pill Dean gave him.

Without even being asked, Dean ripped off the piece of notepaper and flushed it down the toilet.

Dean set the recliner at the right angle for Sam to sleep, set a pillow up for himself, and climbed in next to him, pulling the flannel sheet and thick comforter over both of them. Sam shivered.

He kissed Sam's forehead. It was shockingly hot.

He kissed Sam's mouth. It was warm and dry.

"You gotta get better fast, Sammy."

Sam mouthed "Ok," and tried to settle in. Even in the recliner, even full of pain pills, he was still quite uncomfortable.

Dean closed his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep. And then Sam coughed. A deep, wet cough followed by a wheeze, and another series of coughs.

He clutched at his ribs and made a low, terrible sound.

Dean wasn't the type, but he held on to Sammy, closed his eyes tight and began to pray.

Sam coughed a few more times, an utterly agonizing experience for both of them, but finally drifted off into a fitful sleep.

Dean watched him breathe, shallow quick breaths. Not at all the kind of breath he was supposed to make. Using the spirometer every hour hadn't helped, apparently. Not enough.

Dean spoke out loud to the empty darkness. "So, I know I've not been on your radar or anything. God. Or whoever's out there that does nice things for good people who really need a few nice things to happen. But… I need help. Sam needs help. So, if there is a happy bearded guy on a throne watching out for all us good little girls and boys, could you throw me a bone here?"

Dean laid his hand on Sam's chest. "He's really messed up. And… I can't take it. Seeing him hurt like this. Sick. So, please. I'm asking. Please make him better, God. I'll… I'll owe you one."

And that was the first time Dean Winchester had ever prayed to a benevolent higher power.

Dean tried to keep his eyes open to watch over Sam, but eventually even he couldn't resist the lure of sleep, and his eyes fluttered closed.

A shadow emerged from the corner of the room. Solidified into the figure of a man with curious yellow eyes.

"Poor Dean. Pray all you want. God won't answer. He left the building a long, long time ago." Azazel stood over the boys, a grin stretching across his face. "Good thing for you I'm here. Good thing for you I've taken an interest."

Azazel leaned over Sam, pressed his mouth almost to Sam's lips, and inhaled. "Oh, that's not good." He closed his eyes, palm touching Sam's sternum. "Not good at all."

He dropped into a crouch. "But don't worry, Samuel. I'll take care of you. Not all the way. Can't make 'em suspicious. Pry too much. Find out our little secret. But I'll get you almost all the way there." He ran his fingers through Sam's hair. Sam stirred but did not waken. "I can't have you dying on me, now, can I?"

Azazel laid his hands on Sam's ribs, and muttered something incomprehensible. Sam gasped, but did not wake up.

Azazel pressed his lips to Sam's and exhaled. Sam breathed in, lungs filling fully, and exhaled as the demon inhaled. He spat something viscous onto the floor.

He ran his fingers through Dean's short hair. "And you. You're almost as precious to me as Sam is. Because you're a good little bulldog, aren't you? You're going to keep him nice and safe for me, just like you've been doing. With this one little lapse." He patted Dean's head softly. "But I forgive you. Just keep my boy safe. I have such high hopes for him."

He turned his yellow eyes back to Sam, sprawled on the recliner, one foot hanging off the end. "Sleep well, Sam. See you again real soon."

Azazel was there in the room—and suddenly he wasn't. He was standing over John, asleep on the couch, a half-empty bottle of Scotch in his hand.

"Johnny boy. I have to say, we're all getting such a kick out of you. Your parenting skills alone… such a source of amusement. You're the talk of the Union Meeting House."

He cocked his head. "You've been trying to find me for a long time. Oh, my, you got so angry with me when I burned up Sammy's momma." Azazel suddenly lunged, hovering over John, one hand braced on the couch on either side of him, faces almost touching. "So close. And yet so far away." He stayed like that for a long moment, lips curled, teeth exposed.

"Too soon." He stood up. "I can wait. You know what they say about me, John. I have the patience of a saint."

And like that, he was simply not there anymore.

Dean awoke with a cry, shaking violently. This time, it was Sam who rubbed his sleepy eyes, reached out for his brother to soothe him awake.

He wrapped his arms around Dean and pulled him tight to his chest. "Bad dream?" he whispered.

"Horrible." Dean shook his head, trying to clear away the images, the feelings, so vivid, so real. "Horrible."

"S'ok. I got you." Sam turned onto his side and held Dean closer. Dean finally stopped shaking.  
"What did you dream about?"

Dean let his head fall back and stared up at the ceiling. "Fire."


	21. Kiss and Make it Better

When Dean awoke, cold November light streaming in through the bedroom window, Sam was curled up on his left side, snuggled against him, left arm with the cast stuffed under the pillow supporting his head, his right arm wrapped around Dean.

"You awake?" Dean ruffled Sam's hair.

Sam yawned and rolled on his back, stretching. "Mmph."

"Five more minutes, right?"

Sam snuggled closer. "Mmm."

Dean held Sam close, reveling in the moment of nowhere particular they had to be, nothing particular they had to do, just listening to Sam breathe.

His eyes snapped open.

Listening to Sam breathe.

Deep, even breaths. Not tortured, shallow, wet-sounding gasps.

"Sam?"

"…sleeping." Sam's voice still sounded thrashed.

Dean touched Sam's face, tipped it up. Sam opened his eyes, bleary and still a little bit asleep.

"Take a real deep breath for me?"

Sam's body tensed, anticipating the nearly unbearable pain, but he knew the drill, and drew air into his lungs.

Dean waited for Sam's face to squint shut in agony. It happened every time Sam did the breathing exercise.

But this time, Sam just winced. And was able to take a full, deep breath and hold it.

"Jesus, Dean… what was in the pill you gave me last night?"

Sam smiled, and Dean couldn't help smiling back, so happy was he to see Sam feeling better. But something about it just felt too good to be true.

Sam walked down the stairs by himself, Dean right behind him to steady him if needed.

John looked up as Sam entered the kitchen. His eyes had dark half-circles under them, as if he'd only slept a few hours.

To everyone's surprise, John rose and wrapped Sam in his arms, holding him close, but careful not to squeeze too hard.

Sam blinked in surprise, staring at Dean over John's shoulder. Dean gritted his teeth. The only thing holding him back from swatting John's hands off Sammy was the expression on Sam's face: a shocked look that melted as he sank into the feeling of his dad hugging him.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm so sorry. I should never have hit you like that." John swallowed hard. "I just… that's what I was taught to do. If someone is hysterical. You slap them to snap them out of it. That's what…" John stroked Sam's hair, held him close. His shoulders started shaking in a peculiar rhythm, and his breathing went all choked and funny, and it took Sam and Dean several beats to realize that John was crying.

"It's ok, Dad." Sam's voice was hoarse but functional.

John made an embarrassing sound, part sob, part snort. "No. It's not. It's really not."

Sam's eyes fell shut, as his father held him in his arms and wept, wept for having hurt him.

_Too little._ Dean stuffed his hands into his pockets. _And way too fucking late. _

He watched John struggle for composure and fail. Saw Sam, his own eyes wet with tears, bury his face in the soft flannel of John's overshirt, breathe in his scent of cigarette smoke, whiskey and Jovan Musk for Men, let himself be gently rocked.

_But at least…at least Sam has this. Finally. _

Dean heard Sam whisper, "It's ok, Dad. I'm not mad."

Dean's mouth twisted, his face openly showing his warring emotions, but neither Sam nor John was looking.

But Bobby, back from the pantry with a bag of flour to make biscuits, caught every last flicker.

"Hey, Dean. Wanna give me a hand?"

Dean shut down the emotions he couldn't deal with at the moment, and moved into action. "What's on the menu?

"Biscuits and gravy."

Sam's favorite. And Dean's favorite breakfast that didn't involve bacon.

Dean already knew how to make sausage gravy. That was practically the first thing Bobby had ever taught him to cook, when he was only 14. (As Bobby explained it, "A man needs to know three things: how to drink whiskey without embarrassing himself, how to shoot, and how to make sausage gravy.") So he busied himself crumbling up the sausage and frying it brown, then sprinkling in flour, stirring and adding milk.

Bobby busied himself making biscuits. He knew his way around a kitchen, but he made a terrible mess, particularly with anything involving flour. By the time he slid the pan of biscuits into the oven, he was dusted in flour from chest to knees.

Sam and John sat at the table drinking coffee.

Dean tapped Sam on the shoulder and handed him something. His pain pill. Sam swallowed it with a gulp of coffee, and blinked his thank you in that way that Dean understood immediately.

John watched Sam for a moment. "You look like you're breathing better."

Sam nodded, adding more sugar to his coffee.

John's smile was genuine, and more than a little relieved. "Good."

Everyone but Sam ate two fat buttermilk biscuits, generously doused with sausage gravy flecked with black pepper. Sam closed his eyes with pleasure at the first mouthful, and slowly managed to eat one, wincing as he chewed. He looked at his plate sadly, then slid his plate over to Dean.

After a moment of debating trying to spoon-feed Sam a bit more, Dean caved and devoured Sam's second biscuit in four huge bites.

John finished his cup of coffee and set it down on the table. "Sam. I know you may not be ready to talk about what happened, but we need to know." He and Bobby exchanged a coded glance. "It's important."

Sam took a deep breath, a resigned sigh, as though he'd known all morning this was coming. Under the table, Dean put his hand on Sam's thigh. Sam dropped his hand under the tablecloth and squeezed Dean's hand.

"Tell me what you remember."

Sam stared at his cup of coffee, which was nearly empty. Bobby hopped to his feet and refilled it.

"I remember being jumped. Fighting. Remember them beating the crap out of me. I pretended to pass out. They shoved me in the back of a van. I was able to see street signs, and I counted the miles like you taught us, Dad." Sam explained how he was able to determine where they had taken him, with physical landmarks he was able to see when he dared open his eyes a crack, and based on comments they made, thinking him unconscious.

"They took me into this warehouse. Tied me to a chair. Worked me over." Sam stirred sugar and cream into his coffee. "The one guy used his fists, mostly. A stick. A metal rod. You know, physical stuff. But this other guy…" Sam swallowed. "He could…do things. Without even touching me."

Dean's fingers tightened on Sam's thigh. Sam stroked his hand quickly.

"Not sexual things. Although… anyway, he could hurt me. Without touching me."

Dean caught that. Although. He went cold all over. Nearly called Sam on it right then.

"What kinds of things. Exactly." The wrinkles in John's face stood out, making him look older than he was.

Sam looked at John first, then Bobby. Something in their expressions told him they needed to know.

He looked at Dean. "You don't want to hear this."

"Sam."

"You really don't."

Dean's voice was gentle. "I don't want to. But I have to."

Sam took a deep breath, tilting his head to the side as if to say you asked for it.

"It felt like he was pulling out my fingernails. One at a time. Slow. He'd do one, and then the other guy would hit me. Punch me in my ribs. My stomach."

Bobby flinched.

"Then he'd do it again.

"What else did they do, Sam?" John's voice was smooth, calming, the voice of a father reading his children a bedtime story.

"Don't want to."

"Dad, do you really have to do this? Now?" Dean was becoming extremely agitated.

"I do." John's face was etched with sorrow and rage, but also determination.

Sam suddenly stood up, shoving his chair behind him with a squeal. "They stuck my head in a bucket of water until I passed out. They liked that one. Did it a lot. They hung me from my wrists and used me like a punching bag.

"And the first guy, the older one? He'd tell me to beg. To say please." Sam shook his head. "It was weird. He told me to say, "Please, mister, don't hurt me anymore."

John closed his eyes. Bobby stared at the floor.

"But I wouldn't say it. No matter what they did."

It was hard to say who looked at Sam with more pride, John or Dean.

"But that made him mad. So he got mean. And he told the other guy something. He did this thing. Felt like an electric shock." Sam shuddered. "That one really hurt. And he did it a lot. On my chest and…" Sam stopped.

"I know it's hard. But we need to know. Where else?"

Sam shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. "No."

"Sam—"

"No." The Sam that glared at John wasn't the 15-year-old kid that shrieked when you tickled him under the arms. It was the young man that endured two days of torture without once begging for mercy.

John let it go. "Ok. You don't have to say." But everyone in the room knew. Two people, in fact, knew exactly where else the man had inflicted the sensation of electric shock on Sam's body.

Bobby abruptly stood up and left the room. A moment later, the sound of retching was heard from the downstairs bathroom.

Dean stared at John, his green eyes burning with the full realization of what he and Bobby had done to that other boy, of what they had called down on Sam in revenge.

It looked like hate.

Sam leaned against the refrigerator, shaking. "We done? Can I go now?"

John sagged in his chair. "Of course."

Dean went to him immediately, turning his back to John, blocking Sam from his view. "You wanna go upstairs?" Sam nodded. "I'll be right up." Dean stroked Sam's hair. Just that gentle touch was enough to bleed off a bit of the tension racing through Sam's body. Just a bit.

Sam left the room, broken arm pulled in hard against his stomach like it was aching, and went upstairs.

John couldn't meet Dean's gaze.

"What the fuck?" John had never seen Dean this angry, because Dean had never been this angry. "That's what you two did? To that kid? That's your fucking interrogation technique?"

"Dean, you don't understand—"

"Oh, I get it." Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not much of a difference between them and you, is there?"

John flinched.

"Hurts, huh?" Dean leaned across the table, palms flat on the wood. "Not as much as it hurt him." And Dean's badass demeanor cracked wide open, tears spilling down his face. "I can't even talk to you." He stood up, stumbled, had to sit down. "Dad. What they did to Sam…" And with that, Dean fell apart, burying his face in his forearms and sobbing.

John walked to him, lowered himself to his knees, put his arm around Dean. "It's my fault. It's all my fault, Dean. You're right. And I'm so sorry. I'm going to make it right. To both of you. I swear on your mother. I'll make it right. Please… Dean, please, just give me a chance."

Dean did not throw off John's arm and storm out of the room. He did not curse his father's name. He just pressed his face against the smooth wood of the table and cried himself to exhaustion for what they had done to Sam.

When he was drained, he roused himself and stood. John remained kneeling, head bowed. He didn't say a word. He had no words in him to say. But his hand hovered over his father's head, and then stroked his hair once, so gently it was barely perceptible.

Dean went upstairs, shut the bedroom door and slid the deadbolt shut. Sam was curled up on top of the bed.

Dean lay down behind him, curled up around him and held him. He just held him.

Gradually, Sam stopped shaking.

With just gentle pressure of his hands, Dean asked Sam to roll over towards him. Sam did.

Dean kissed Sam's forehead. His eyelids. His nose. His mouth. Featherlight kisses, moist with warm breath from his barely parted lips.

He kissed his throat, mouth warm and soft, moving from top to bottom, one side to the other. His fingers toyed at the neck of Sam's t-shirt.

Sam stripped it off, lay back down.

Dean kissed every bit of Sam's exposed skin, moving slowly down his chest. He brushed his lips against every bruise, every healing cut and abrasion. So slowly. So gently.

He undid the top button of Sam's jeans, drew the zipper down, pulled the clothing away. He stripped Sam bare. And wordlessly, with an intensity that transfixed Sam, Dean kissed Sam's body, working his way across every single inch.

He paused over Sam's inner thighs. "Sam. Did he. Here?"

Sam knew what he was asking. Did the man with the dark powers to cause pain inflict the sensation of electroshock torture there, on his inner thighs? And he couldn't lie to Dean, as badly as he might want to.

"Yes."

Dean breathed warm breath over Sam's flesh, stroked it with his fingertips, and kissed every inch of his inner thighs, breathing out as if to drive softness and love and pleasure through the skin to sink into Sam's muscle and bone.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, as if steeling himself, then brushed his mouth over Sam's cock. "Here?" His eyes, bright green in the midday light, looked hopeful.

Sam's response, closing his eyes tight, body shuddering, a sharp nod, drove the hope from his eyes, but not the love. Dean brought his lips to Sam, kissed the tip of his cock, mouth parting. Kissed the crown, his lips velvet-soft. Kissed his way down the shaft, not leaving a single molecule of skin untouched. Sam was hard. And so was Dean. But this was not sexual, not meant to spur desire and assuage it. This rooted deeper, flew higher.

Dean rolled Sam onto his stomach. He kissed Sam from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes, with inexhaustible patience, the love rolling off him in waves, breathing out between his lips, telegraphed in the gentle touch of his fingertips, the brush of his cheek against Sam's lower back.

His mouth ghosted over the curve of Sam's ass. His voice, fragile. "Sam. Here?"

And Sam turned, looking over his shoulder at Dean so that he would be able to read the truth of it on his face and said, "No. Not there."

Dean rested his cheek in the sleek curve of Sam's lower back, hand caressing his flank, his tears falling warm and soft on Sam's skin.


	22. A Visitor

A tap at the bedroom door. "You boys might wanna come down. Someone's here to see you."

Sam raised his head from Dean's chest, the two twined together naked under the flannel sheets and thick comforter. They exchanged a confused look. They hadn't been there long enough to get to know anyone.

Dean helped Sam dress. Although he was breathing much better, he was still very sore and stiff, his bruises doing the ghastly progression of color from Battered Red to Three-Weeks'-Dead Green. His skin looked worse, not better.

Sam let Dean button up his flannel overshirt with a tiny smile on his face.

"Getting to like this, aren't you." Dean buttoned the third button from the top and stopped there.

Sam extended his arms for Dean to button the sleeves, grinning.

Dean buttoned them up. "When you're better, dude. Gonna be you waiting on me hand and foot."

Sam's face pinked up. His expression sent a shiver through Dean.

"You like that?"

Sam made a little sound.

Suddenly, Dean felt very warm, despite the late November chill. He stepped closer to Sam, not actually touching him, feeling the pull between them like a physical force. "Yeah, you do. That how you're gonna thank me for taking such good care of you, Sammy?" Dean could have touched Sam with his hands. But he'd gotten addicted to doing it with his voice, watching the desire flicker across Sam's face. "Strip down, get on your hands and knees for me? Do whatever I want?"

Sam's eyes were huge. Dean could see his pulse racing, twitching that vein in his neck.

"Can't even talk. Shit, you DO like that."

Sam swallowed hard. "I like everything with you."

"Yeah, but you really, really like that idea." Dean palmed Sam's cock. "Knew it. It just kills me, how quick you get hard for me."

Sam closed his eyes, fighting to keep himself under control. "Dean. They're waiting."

As if on cue, John's voice rose from downstairs. "Boys! Hurry up."

Dean stroked Sam's cock again, finding it hard to pull his hand away. "I just… fuck. Goddamn it."

The frustration in his voice made Sam smile. "This probably won't take long."

Dean practically stalked downstairs, hackles raised like a peevish dog.

A man he'd never seen before stood in the living room, talking with John and Bobby. Sam came up behind him.

John introduced them. "This is Reggie Beaumont."

Dean extended his hand. "I'm Dean. And I've heard of you." Dean couldn't hide a note of hero worship in his voice. Reggie Beaumont was perhaps the most legendary living hunter in America. A lethal shot with an eagle eye, skilled knife-maker, dogged and determined, smart as hell and if the tales were true, possessed of uncommon bravery.

"Everyone's heard of you." Sam stuck his hand out. "Sam."

Reggie was in his sixties, with a full head of messy, grey-white hair shot through with a few strands of black, dark bushy eyebrows, a thick white moustache that covered his upper lip, and vivid blue eyes. He chewed on a toothpick. "Well, everyone's heard of you now, and that's a fact."

"What?"

"C'mon, what say we sit down? Look like you're still tender, Sam."

Sam gratefully accepted the offer, sitting on the couch so Dean could sit next to him, instead of in what had temporarily become Sam's recliner.

Bobby brought out a bottle. "Too early for whiskey?"

Reggie just laughed.

"Yeah. Didn't think so."

Bobby set out five tumblers.

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

Bobby splashed whiskey into each glass, and distributed them. He didn't even try to meet Dean's gaze. He did look at Sam briefly, but his face fell and he averted his eyes.

"Reggie came here just to see you two boys." John took a swallow of whiskey. He too found it difficult to look Dean in the face.

Dean did his level best to keep his feelings secured, and not let them burn through the veneer of polite sociability. Just the sight of Sam's swollen eye and jaw, and bruised face, reminded him of what John and Bobby had done, and how that had spilled over onto his innocent baby brother.

He stretched his arm over the back of the sofa, not touching Sam, but shielding him.

"Why did you want to see us?" Sam held his tumbler, but did not drink.

"When I heard about what happened, what you two boys did… well, I had to come."

Dean cocked his head questioningly.

"Word's gotten round, see. About how you two handled your business. You, Sam. How you kept your head and figured out where they took you. How you signaled your family while they were torturing you. How you kept your cool and took what happened to you like a man. About how you didn't beg."

Sam straightened up, as though the words were being pumped through him.

"Most men couldn't have done that. Not even most hunters. What you did, Sam…" Reggie paused, worrying the toothpick in his mouth. "It was extraordinary."

Dean let his arm settle onto Sam's shoulders.

"I just… I just did what I had to do. What Dean would have done."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away, unable to hide the emotion on his face, not wanting the men to see. He blew a breath out. "Sam. I couldn't have done that."

"And what you did, Dean. That was… unheard of for a hunter your age. Hell, unheard of for most hunters, period."

Dean held his head up and met Reggie's gaze like a man, but his face broke into the smile of a little boy unwrapping his first BB gun under the Christmas tree.

"Your father and Bobby, there aren't many finer hunters on the planet than these two. And those things got the jump on them. But you took them all out. You were smart, and brave, and damn lethal with a blade. But it was more than that. You showed your character. Both of you."

Dean held his whiskey, trying not to let his hand shake.

Reggie took a deep swallow of whiskey, rolling it in his mouth and swallowing with a sigh. Then he set the glass down. "I never had kids. Starting hunting early on, and I couldn't have that kind of life. But if I had…" Reggie blinked a few times and rubbed his nose. "If I had, I'd have been the proudest father in the world if my sons were half the men you two are."

Sam's eyes welled with tears. Dean's, too.

"You raised two fine sons, John. And Bobby, I know how much you helped with that. " Bobby raised his head, surprised, an expression of gratitude on his face for that unexpected recognition.

"Anyway, I came here to meet you two in person, and have the pleasure of shaking your hand. And to give you something."

Reggie rummaged in the army knapsack at his feet, and brought out two bundles wrapped in soft leather.

He handed one to each of them.

They unwrapped them. Inside the leather wrapping was a knife tucked inside a beautiful leather sheath, with long teardrops of blood-red material that looked like dragon scales, inlaid in a peacock-tail pattern in hand-carved leather.

They pulled their knives out. Each was a spear point steel blade flowing past a pointed quillon, meant to protect the hand from sliding down the blade, becoming the handle ornamented with a dark red gemstone grip, inscribed on either side with elaborate symbols, curving down and ending in a rear finger ring.

Etched into the flat of the blade was a phrase in Latin. "Fidus et audax." Dean read it out loud.

"Faithful and brave." Reggie and Sam spoke in unison. Reggie smiled at Sam.

Dean stared at the knife and sheath in his hands, holding the blade, turning it this way and that way in the light.

Sam stroked the sheath, barely touching it. "This is… I don't even know what to say."

Dean spoke without thinking. "It's the second most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my whole life."

The older men laughed.

"What's the first?" Reggie grinned, his moustache twitching.

Sam looked at Dean curiously.

Dean blushed… and then blushed harder when he realized he was blushing in front of everyone. "Um… Ronda Hurley."

"Figures." Bobby snorted.

"Hey, he's got his priorities perfectly straight. A beautiful knife ain't as pretty as a beautiful girl." Reggie finished his whiskey.

Sam looked up at Reggie, eyes bright. "You made these."

"Yes I did. Made them for a pair of hunters a long time ago but they were killed before I finished. Kept them around. Figured someday I'd figure out who they were meant for. When I heard about you two, I knew." Reggie drew his finger down the Latin inscription of Sam's knife. "I put that on there special for you and Dean."

Dean looked up. "Two matching knives. Were they brothers?"

Reggie's smile reached all the way to their eyes. "No. They were together."

"Together-together?" Sam's leg moved almost imperceptibly until it touched Dean's.

"Oh yes." Reggie removed the toothpick from his mouth. "All my time on this earth, I've never seen two people love each other more than those two guys. They were each other's soulmates, and that's just a fact."

"When two people really love each other, there's not a damn thing wrong with it. No matter what some folks might think." Bobby's voice was quiet but firm. "You can't help who you love."

"No, you can't." John stared off into nothing, clearly caught in the memory of Mary that perpetually hung around him like fog.

"With your permission, John, I'd like to take your boys out for burgers. Spend a little time with them."

John shook his head, rousing himself from his reverie. "Sure. But hey, while you're here, could I pick your brain on something?" John opened a large vellum-bound book on the desk in the living room, and he and Bobby pointed out a series of symbols.

Dean leaned close to Sam, who was holding his knife, an expression of what could only be described as awe on his face.

"Awesome, huh."

"Dean. This is… these are the nicest… Dean." Sam couldn't form coherent sentences.

"I know."

Sam watched the men huddled around the table. "So, was Ronda Hurley really the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?" The corners of his eyes were tight, as was his mouth.

Dean leaned closer, whispered, "Don't be jealous. I just said that for them. It's you."

Sam peered at Dean.

"The most beautiful thing I've ever seen? It's you. When you're with me."

Sam surreptitiously squeezed Dean's hand, looked at him and blinked slowly in that way he had of saying "I love you" without speaking.

Suddenly, he closed his eyes tight, exhaling through his teeth.

"You hurting, Sammy? Shit. Past time for your pain pill." Dean got up and brought back a glass of water and Sam's meds. He'd waited too long, and now Sam was in pain.

He couldn't stand Sam in pain. He had to do something until the pain pill kicked in.

Sam swallowed his pill.

John glanced over, saw Sam wincing. "Sam? You ok?"

"Just took it, Dad. I'll be ok in a few."

John turned back to the conversation.

Dean stood behind Sam, leaning over him on the couch, his mouth brushing Sam's ear. "Can't wait to get you alone, Sammy."

Sam gasped, and craned his neck to stare up at Dean.

"They can't hear me. Only you can hear me." Dean's voice came soft and low in Sam's ear. "Hold up your knife. Pretend I'm talking to you about it."

Sam turned back around, and held the knife up.

"So yeah. When I get you alone? Gonna get your clothes off, get you in that big recliner, get on my knees…"

Sam shivered, and coughed to camouflage it.

"…gonna lick all the way up the inside of your leg, real slow…" Dean's eyes remained fixed on the men at the table, watching alertly. "…all the way up, almost there, then back down. Start again on the other leg. Watch your cock just twitch."

Sam shifted in his seat.

"Getting hard again, huh? Doesn't take much, does it, Sammy? Just the thought of me, huh?"

Sam nodded.

"Love how you go crazy for me, baby boy. Better than anyone. You know that?" Dean leaned a little closer. "You're better than anyone I've ever been with."

Sam shot Dean a look that defied description.

"And I'm gonna make you go crazy. But you'll have to stay quiet. Because there are people in the house. Don't want them to hear us, do you?" Dean watched John, Bobby and Reggie, alert for any shift in their focus. "Don't want them to hear you begging me to put your dick in my mouth. Hear those pretty little sounds you make when I do. Hear how you sound when I lick you open, get my tongue all up inside you…"

Sam squirmed. "Dean. I can't…"

"No. You can't. Can't do anything but listen to what I'm gonna do to you." Dean's voice was warm, sweet tea on a freezing cold day. It was butter melting over pancakes fresh off the griddle. It was like how whiskey was supposed to taste but didn't. "And Sammy… I'm gonna do so many things to you."

Sam's knuckles were white on the grip of the knife.

"Lick you open, nice and slow. Get my fingers up inside you. Fuck, love doing that to you. Fingers inside you, mouth on your cock, the way you go crazy for it. So hungry for it. Need to hear you say please, Dean. Fuck. Love it when you say that. Please. Asking for it so sweet. Hear how much you need me. How much you love it."

Sam started to tremble.

"Can't wait to get that cock in my mouth and make you feel good, baby boy. I know you're hurting. And I'm gonna make you feel so fucking good. I promise." Dean bit his lip, working himself up to a heightened state just like he was doing to Sam. "Christ, Sam, 's all I want to do. Make you feel good. Make you come for me. Hold you. Do it all over again."

"Dean…" Sam's voice was soft, needy.

"Can't wait 'till you're better, baby boy. Give you everything."

Sam made a hoarse sound, and jumped to his feet, tugging the hem of his flannel down to hide the evidence of his physical reaction. "Hey, mind if we go eat now, and y'all can talk about that stuff after?"

"Absolutely. Pretty peckish myself." Reggie stood up straight.

Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Gotta take care of Sam. He's really hungry."

Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean. Only he could see Sam's face, the soft, wet mouth and eyes wide with desire and love. "Yeah, better hurry up. I'm starving."


	23. What Are You Looking At?

Dean stayed right alongside Sam, moving in unison, as they walked into Dickie's Burger and BBQ. Reggie held the door for them.

Dickie's was the kind of place where the burgers were smoked on a firepit, the silverware was stuck into a old, clean coffee can on the table covered with a vinyl tablecloth, and cold drinks were served in Mason jars.

"Whatever you want." Reggie gestured to the menu on the paper placemats before each of them. "Except beer. Civilians wouldn't understand."

After a few minutes, their waitress, a thin young woman with dyed red hair, brought them three Mason jars filled with ice water. "You boys know what you'd like?"

Reggie said, "I'd like the rib combo and a Pabst."

The waitress stared at Sam's face, her eyes going wide. "And what would you like?"

Sam blinked, a bit confused by her expression. "Um, I'd like a turkey burger with Swiss, fries, and a strawberry shake."

The waitress turned toward Dean.

"Smokehouse burger with bacon and cheddar, extra onions, hold the pickle, onion rings—"

The waitress cut in. "Bag or basket?"

"Basket. And a chocolate malt."

"Got it." Giving Sam another lingering look, the waitress walked toward the kitchen.

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean. "What, no onion shake?"

"Onions are awesome." Dean chewed on an ice cube.

Sam's mouth pursed. "Make your breath stink."

Dean unconsciously ran his tongue over his teeth. "I do know how to use a toothbrush."

The restaurant was warm, so within a few minutes, both Sam and Dean shed their flannel overshirts, Dean helping Sam slide his over his cast.

"Ouch." Reggie glanced at the cast. "How'd they do that one?" His voice was casual, like it was no big deal.

Dean watched Sam's face. Sam hadn't told him exactly how his arm got broken.

"When they dragged me into the warehouse. I was pretending to be out of it. They went to tie me up, and I made a break for it." Sam made a face. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

Reggie took a sip of water, letting Sam continue in his own time.

"The older guy got hold of a piece of pipe. Tried to hit me in the head. I blocked."

Reggie whistled. "That's gotta hurt."

Under the table, Dean squeezed Sam's thigh, his face going hard and closed off.

"Not as much as him working my ribs over with it after."

Both Reggie and Dean winced.

"Any idea what they wanted? Why they took you?"

Dean froze.

Sam shrugged. "Wanted to hurt me. Hurt Dad. I guess he got too close to them, and they wanted to send a message."

Dean relaxed slightly. But only slightly.

The memory must have triggered pain, remembered or current, in Sam's arm, because he pulled his arm into his side, just as Reggie reached across to grab silverware out of the coffee can next to Sam. Right then, the waitress approached, carrying two plates on her left arm and the large platter of ribs in her right hand.

She gave Reggie an odd look. "Ok, the rib combo for you, the smokehouse burger and onion rings for you, and the turkey burger for you…" She put the plates down in front of each of them, staring at Sam's arms. Every visible inch of skin not covered by the cast was covered in bruises.

Sam snatched his arms back and put them under the table.

"Um, I'll be right back with your drinks." She scurried away.

Reggie gave Sam a warm look. "Happens all the time. Gets kind of fun after a while, making up new stories to explain the marks."

Sam gave a weak smile.

"Gotta drain the lizard. Be right back." Reggie walked toward the restaurant, favoring his left leg slightly in a manner than indicated it was a longstanding limp, and not something temporary.

Sam and Dean tore into their food, eating like they were starved. Dean took a bite of his burger, and didn't even bother repressing a groan.

Sam took equal pleasure in his turkey burger and fries, licking the salt off his fingertips.

A kid at the table across from Sam was staring at the bruising on his face, his black eye and still-swollen eyelid. "Hey. What's wrong with your face?"

The boy's mother gasped, and said, "Jimmy!" in a scolding tone.

Sam glared at him. "I asked a stranger too many rude questions."

The boy's mouth dropped open, and his mother pulled him close, shooting Sam a dirty look.

"Your kid started it, lady." Dean bit into an onion ring. The woman put cash on the table and hustled little Jimmy out.

Sam put his flannel back on.

The waitress came back with the two shakes and Reggie's beer. She looked around, not seeing him anywhere, and then bent down to speak to Sam. "Look, this is none of my business, I know, but… if your dad is hurting you, there's people in town that can help, 'cause you don't have to put up with that, I mean, my daddy used to beat the living tar out of me, so I know, and you know… just uh, just nod or something, and I'll get you somewhere safe…"

Sam was mortified.

Dean should have been annoyed. But he was surprisingly moved.

He laid his hand on her forearm. "Thank you. That's very kind of you."

She blinked, falling silent.

"But it's nothing like that. He got jumped."

She stammered, embarrassed. "Oh my goodness. I'm so sorry. I just… it looked like you were scared of your dad, and, oh my goodness, I wish I could just sink into the earth and disappear."

Dean gave her his best smile. "It's ok. You were just looking out for my little brother. That was real brave of you, to speak up like that. I mean, he could have been—it could have been the way you thought. And you were going to step in and help him. Thank you."

It worked like a charm.

She calmed down, and beamed at Dean like she was just told that her life had meaning.

However, she still scooted away quickly when Reggie rejoined them.

Sam's expression gave away that he was upset.

"What'd I miss?"

"Probably shouldn't have tried leaving the house so soon." Sam took a bite of French fry.

Dean explained what had happened. Reggie patted Sam's hand. "Maybe we should have gotten our food to go. I'm sorry. I meant to do something nice for you. And get to talk to you a little."

Sam assured him that it was fine. And it was. Having lunch with Reggie Beaumont. It was awesome.

Still, Sam's mood had soured with the unwanted attention and fairly understandable assumptions. They ate quickly, Dean relieved at how many calories Sam was able to get into him, chewing without so much discomfort that he pushed the plate away after a few bites, like every meal so far.

"Jaw feeling better?"

Sam nodded, chewing his burger.

"Yeah, but not as much as my ribs. That was just so weird."

Reggie glanced up, barbeque sauce staining his moustache. "What?"

"Day before yesterday, I could barely breathe. My ribs hurt so bad, and my lungs just felt… rotten. And the doctor came by at night with these antibiotics, and I took one and the next morning, I felt like 90% better." Sam took a sip of shake, closing his eyes. "God that's good. Anyway, so yeah, my lungs were better, and my ribs felt better, but everything else still hurt just as bad."

Reggie wiped his moustache with a handful of paper napkin and took a deep swig of beer. "Now that is weird."

A shiver went up Dean's spine. It had been weird. They were right. And that dream…

"Dean? What's up?"

"I had a dream that night."

Sam took another deep drink of strawberry shake. "Yeah, said he dreamed of fire."

Dean didn't say anything. Sam focused in on his expression. "What."

"Not just a fire. I dreamed of mom. The night…the night she burned."

Reggie pushed his beer away. "Describe it?"

Dean rubbed his mouth. "It was vivid. Really vivid." He closed his eyes for a moment. "I could hear it. Feel the heat on my face. Smell—" He stopped. Wasn't going to describe what he smelled. Suddenly, he felt sick to his stomach, and pushed the plate with his half-finished hamburger away from him.

"Were you little, in the dream, like you were when it happened? Or the age you are now?"

"Like I am now. Actually."

"What did it smell like?"

Dean shook his head. "Like… burning flesh. And…" Dean thought about it. "Rotten eggs."

Reggie sagged back in his chair..

"Was it just you in the dream, and your mom? Was there anyone else there?"

Dean closed his eyes again and tried to remember.

"Eyes. In the corner of the room." Dean shivered. "Yellow eyes."


	24. You're Soaking In It

Reggie stared at Dean so intently, he felt like a bug on a pin. He went to signal the waitress for the check, and jerked his hand clumsily, knocking over the coffee can full of utensils.

Sam jumped like he'd been shot, recoiling against his seat so fast he would have tipped over backward if Dean wasn't on him in a heartbeat, grabbing his flannel to hold him up.

"Sam?"

Sam's face was white, his breathing ragged.

The corners of Reggie's mouth went down, and he swore. "Get him out of here." He tossed Dean the keys to his car. "Quick. I'll be right there."

Sam began curling in on himself, muttering something under his breath. Dean hustled Sam out the door, as Reggie went to pay the check.

Dean got Sam into the back seat of the Dodge Challenger, and slid in next to him. Sam was hyperventilating again, still chanting the unintelligible sounds.

"Shhh, Sammy. I'm here. It's ok. You're safe."

Sam looked around the car, wild-eyed. "Uh-uh. Nope." He shook his head, squeezing his eyes tight shut, rocking back and forth, and muttered the sounds again.

Dean pulled Sam into his arms. "You're safe. I got you. No one's gonna hurt you. I'm right here." He stroked his hair. Gradually, Sam's chant became understandable.

"…coming for me Dean's coming for me Dean's coming for me Dean's coming for me…"

Dean leaned over Sam, shielding him with his body, arms wrapped around him, tears spilling down his face uncontrollably. "That's right, Sammy. I came for you. Remember? I came for you. I took them all out. Killed every one of them. Remember? Sam. Sammy. I came for you."

Dean looked around to see if Reggie had emerged from the restaurant, and seeing no one, he pressed his lips to Sam's mouth. "Come on, baby boy. Remember. I came for you."

Sam's breath stuttered, caught its rhythm again. "Dean?"

"Right here, Sammy. Not going anywhere."

Sam swiped his arm across his eyes. "You came for me."

"Damn right."

"Killed them."

"You remember now?"

"Watched you. Kill them."

Dean's expression was a strange mix of controlled fury and desperate love. "I'll kill anyone who hurts you, Sam."

Sam leaned into Dean, burying his face in his chest, his breathing gradually slowing.

When he let his head fall back against Dean's shoulder, exhausted, Reggie emerged from the shadowed side of the restaurant where he'd stopped in his tracks at the sight of Sam and Dean in the back of the car.

A gentle smile played over his lips, as he limped toward the car and got in.

Dean handed him his keys.

"He better?"

Dean nodded.

"That's gonna happen for a while. PTSD. Sounds might set him off. Other things."

"Did it happen to you?"

Reggie rubbed his moustache. "Oh yeah."

"You seem ok now."

Reggie started the car. "I had someone who helped me get through it." He glanced at the two young men in the back seat of his car. "You just keep taking as good care of him as you've been doing. You'll get him through this just fine."

When they arrived at the house, Dean helped Sam upstairs and settled him in the recliner. "Be right back up. Five minutes." He checked his watch, kissed Sam on the top of his head, and ran downstairs.

Reggie had filled John and Bobby in on Sam's panic attack triggered by the loud noise.

"Well, Fourth of July's gonna be a barrel of laughs." Bobby's smile was grim.

"He's young. He can get past this." Reggie accepted the shot of whiskey Bobby shoved into his hand. "What, you don't believe in water?"

"I live on whiskey and my dry sense of humor." Bobby poured a generous shot in a glass and handed that to Dean. "That's for both of you."

John grabbed Dean's hand. "I'll be right up."

Dean headed toward the stairs. Reggie limped after him.

"Hold up, Dean." He examined Dean's face carefully. "I didn't say anything to your dad about your dream. And I'm not going to until I know more."

Dean frowned. "It was just a dream."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"What are you saying?"

"Intense dreams like what you described, dreams of death or chaos, with vivid sensory detail… sometimes that's what happens around a supernatural presence."

Dean's blood went cold.

"Now, I don't mean to scare you. But you need to know. I need you to keep an extra close eye on Sam. And you call me if you have another dream like that. You call me the second you wake up. Got it?" Reggie thrust a piece of paper with his phone number on it into Dean's hand.

"Some weird stuff going on. I need to call in a few favors. Find out what I can." Reggie picked up the knives from the table next to the couch where they'd left them, and handed them to Dean. "And keep these on you. All the time."

Dean went upstairs and sat next to Sam on the loveseat recliner. They shared the glass of whiskey, Sam still shaking, until it was all gone.

A knock at the door.

"Come in."

John entered. "Hey, Sam."

Sam turned reddened eyes toward his father. "Hey, Dad."

"Reggie tells me you people were staring at you because of the bruises."

"Yeah. I look like an After School Special on child abuse."

John knelt next to Sam. "I should have done this sooner. I don't know why—anyway, I know a trick that'll make the bruises go away a lot faster."

Sam looked up at his father. Dean had to turn his head at the smile he gave John. "Yeah?"

"It's kind of smelly, though. Think you can handle it?"

John insisted on doing everything himself. He spread a plastic tarp over the bed, and laid a faded brown comforter on top of that. Next, he appeared with a bucket full of a pungent smelling liquid, and a shopping bag full of all the washcloths and thick, clean rags that Bobby had in the house.

"What is that?" Dean wrinkled his nose.

"Vinegar."

"Seriously?"

"It works."

Dean clenched his teeth. "Fine."

John had Sam strip to his boxers and lay down. One at a time, he soaked the clothes in vinegar and laid them over Sam, everywhere there was bruising. Which is to say, everywhere.

Dean stood in the corner, arms crossed, anger and jealousy crackling off him like sparklers.

John lay a soft, warm blanket over Sam. "Just need to do your face." He soaked more rags, wrung them out and lay them carefully across Sam's chin, cheeks, nose and forehead, making sure they were not so wet they would drip vinegar into his eyes.

"Now I'm craving salad." Sam smiled up at his father.

"Hey, want me to read to you while you soak?"

"Yeah."

"What do you want to hear?"

Sam was quiet for a moment. "You never did finish reading me The Wind in the Willows."

John flinched. "I've been a pretty crappy father, haven't I."

Sam opened his mouth to protest. But John shushed him. "I know I have. And I'm sorry. I meant to do better. A lot better. But I'll make it up to you."

Sam was so enraptured by being the center of John's world that he didn't even notice when Dean slipped out of the room.

Reggie had left. Bobby was downstairs looking at drawings Reggie had given him of new symbols to add to his devil's traps to punch up their protection. "Come here and look at this, Dean. It's a Sumerian glyph that's supposed to ward off even the highest-level demons."

Dean slumped on the couch.

"Dean." Dean wouldn't look at Bobby. "You gotta let him try."

Dean snorted. "Like a little old wives' tale is gonna help Sam. Like it'd even be a start."

"It's a start for John. Something he can grab onto. Find his way in."

Dean raised his head and looked Bobby in the eye.

"Bobby. How could you."

Bobby jerked his head back like he'd been slapped.

"My dad? That, I kinda get. Kinda. He's a son of a bitch. But you…" Dean paused, trying to hold it together. "You. Not you."

Bobby didn't shy away. "I did a lot that I'm not proud of." He rubbed his beard. "A lot that was flat-out wrong. And I'm gonna have to find a way to live with that. But you gotta understand, Dean. We were close. Closing to finding the demon that killed your mother. And John… he just couldn't take it easy. It was like…" Bobby rubbed the bridge of his nose. "…like this one thing was between us and that demon. Finally having it in sight. And John just… he wouldn't stop. And me… God help me, I didn't stop him." Bobby poured himself another shot of whiskey, and he'd clearly had a few already. "I helped him. Jesus, Dean, I helped him."

Dean went to Bobby, stood behind him and put his arms around him. Bobby broke down in sobs, frantic, hopeless sobs that stripped him down to bare bones and howling regret.

"And to think they did to Sam what we… oh, Jesus, Dean… how am I gonna live with that?"

Dean held Bobby tighter. "You deal with it by taking care of Sam. Whatever he needs. Whatever you can do for him. You take care of Sam. Forever. You got it? You atone."

Bobby cried harder. "Don't even deserve to keep drawing breath."

"Bobby. Don't you dare." Dean knelt in front of him. "We need you. Me and Sam need you. You're…" Dean glanced up towards the room he shared with Sam, to make sure John wasn't standing at the top of the stairs listening, watching. "You're like the dad we wished we had."

Bobby's chest heaved, like he'd driven out all the air in his lungs.

"We need you, Bobby."

"I'll do it. Take care of you two. Best I can. Make up for what I done."

"Swear?"

Bobby wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. "Swear."

"You mean it?"

"Look me in the eyes. Tell me if I mean it."

Dean looked Bobby in the eyes, and saw the soul-deep agony he felt for his part in what they had done, and what happened to Sam. Saw how deep the wound was.

"I forgive you."

Bobby's face lit up—then fell. "Don't. Don't you forgive me. I haven't earned it yet."

"You will."

Dean poured himself a shot of whiskey and sat in front of the fire, and would not say any more.

Upstairs, John read out loud to Sam about how Mr. Toad stole the motorcar. Dean forced himself to stay where he was, to not make an excuse to go into the bedroom, to offer to take over or just sit on the edge of the bed.

He wanted nothing more than to do just that, or to smack the book from John's hands and scream at him to get away from Sam, that reading a few pages wasn't going to earn him a Father of the Year trophy. But he kept seeing the expression on Sam's face as John tended to him, took care of him, sat next to him. And he knew that soon, very soon, Sam would be strong enough to hear the truth, and he'd never have that pure, innocent delight in John's presence again.

And as he sat on the couch, his mind drifted to that question that kept gnawing at him.

How did Spivey know exactly what John and Bobby had done?


	25. Behavior Modification

John thumped down the stairs and came into the living room. Bobby was at his desk, four books open in front of him. Dean came back in from the kitchen, apple in hand.

"Sam's asleep." John settled down on the couch with a sigh.

Dean glanced at the closed door to what was now their bedroom at the top of the stairs.

"Probably best to let him rest, Dean."

Dean considered the suggestion. And his demeanor made it very clear that to him, it was just a suggestion. Not an order.

"I'll go up in a bit."

Dean sat in the recliner.

"Hey, Dean, since when is there a lock on your door?"

Dean looked up at John quickly, then at Bobby. He hadn't been sure who put that lock on the door. Or why.

"Since Sam…since it happened." Bobby's face was calm, the tone of his voice casual. "I figured he'd sleep better if he knew the door was locked." He glanced at Dean, just for a second. "And besides. People need their privacy."

Dean sucked in a quick breath.

"Ah, ok. I just don't remember that door having a lock." John slumped back on the couch, scratching his chin, and closed his eyes. "Nap sounds good right about now, actually."

Dean watched Bobby, trying to read his face. After a minute, Bobby noticed Dean staring at him. He said nothing, but his lips moved, rising into a tiny smile.

Dean leaned back in the recliner, taking a few deep breaths. Probably meant nothing, he thought. Couldn't possibly mean that—

The scream that punched through the closed bedroom door was chilling. Dean was on his feet, blood frozen solid in his veins, pelting up the stairs before John had even sat all the way up. The wordless cry quivered, thinned, dissolved into a terrifying silence, and then Sam's voice screamed, fear-sharp and ragged, "Dean!"

Dean flung the bedroom door open. Sam was huddled in a tight ball in the far corner of the room, shaking violently, screaming his brother's name again and again, eyes cast upward, staring at nothing.

Dean fell to his knees and shielded Sam with his body, lacing his arms around him. "Sam. I'm here. I'm right here."

Sam reeked of vinegar, his bare chest slippery with sweat. He buried his face in Dean's chest, and made a low moan so soft and scared that it made Dean's heart ache. He clutched at Dean like a drowning man at a life preserver. "Dean."

"Right here, Sammy." Dean pulled Sam to him even closer, and Sam broke into sobs. "I got you. You're ok. You're safe."

John approached slowly, Bobby a few feet behind him. "Sam?"

Sam shuddered. "I'm ok. Just…"

"Bad dream?" Dean wiped tears from Sam's cheek with the back of his hand.

Sam nodded furiously.

Dean's mouth quivered. He pursed his lips, determined not to cry. Not in front of John and Bobby.

"Dude. You smell like pickles."

Sam's sob turned into a choked laugh. "No joke." He looked up at Dean. "So do you."

Dean looked down. Holding Sam, skin still damp from the vinegar soak, he'd gotten it all over himself.

Bobby put his hand on John's shoulder. "Let's let these two get cleaned up, and you and me, we'll go make some grub."

John stroked Sam's hair. He had tears in his eyes. "Sam."

"I'm alright, Dad."

John closed his eyes for a moment, then patted Sam's head. He gathered up the vinegar-soaked cloths, extra comforters and tarp, and carried them downstairs.

Bobby hung back.

"Dean."

Two pairs of eyes looked up at him.

"Don't let Sam fall asleep without you with him." His smile was gentle. "He needs you. You just keep taking real good care of him. He'll be fine. And Sam, take a damn shower."

Bobby turned to go, but paused in the doorway, back to them, hand on the doorjamb, right below the deadbolt. He didn't turn around. "You two… as long as you're together, you're gonna be ok." And with that, he left, closing the door behind him.

Dean stared at the closed door. Thinking.

"Dean."

Dean looked back at Sam. His wan face wore a guarded expression.

"I'm… I'm scared."

"Hey. Hey. Hey. I'm right here. Nothing's gonna hurt you."

"The shower." Sam stared at the floor.

Dean closed his eyes. Water.

"Ok. I have an idea. You're gonna be fine. Trust me?"

Sam's hopeful expression said it all.

Dean gathered up clean clothes for both of them and they went into the upstairs bathroom together. Dean ran the shower until the temperature was perfect, then stripped.

"Come on. Let's get those off you." Dean pulled Sam's sweatpants off, and slipped a shower protector over Sam's cast. Sam's face was grey, his mouth closed tightly, making those fast breaths through his nose that he did when he was on the edge of absolute panic.

Dean stepped close and pulled Sam into a hug. "Gonna keep you safe. Trust me. Ok?"

Sam nodded, looking suddenly so much younger.

Dean held onto Sam's shoulder and led him into the shower. Sam breathed in the moist air and went rigid, refusing to go any further. Dean immediately wrapped himself around Sam. "You can breathe. Plenty of air. Right?"

Sam closed his eyes, panic building. "Dean."

Dean kissed him. Sam's eyes flashed open.

Dean held his hand out to Sam, asking, not forcing. Sam took his hand. Dean pulled gently, so gently. Asking. Not making Sam. Sam stood stock still, then closed his eyes and let Dean pull him all the way into the shower stall.

Dean maneuvered Sam into the stream of water, letting it pour down his shoulders and back, pressing his body against Sam.

Sam responded, hardening at the feel of Dean's naked body. As Dean knew he would.

"Ever tell you how hot you look when you're soaking wet?" Dean grinned at Sam.

Sam blinked rapidly, caught between abject, reflexive terror and arousal. Dean ran his fingers through Sam's hair, pressing his cock, fully hard now, against Sam's thigh. The water streamed through his hair. Sam's mouth opened, responding to Dean's touch.

"Gonna take you to that beach, Sammy. Like I promised. Remember?" It seemed like a million years ago when Dean had talked dirty to Sam, telling him how he wanted to get Sam on that beach, watch him drink a bottle of beer, slide his cock into Sam's mouth…

"Yeah," Sam managed to whisper.

Dean reached behind Sam for the bottle of shampoo, squirted some into his palm, and began working it into Sam's hair. Sam moaned when Dean lightly scratched his scalp with the tips of his fingernails.

"I can just see you, coming out of the water, dripping wet. So fucking hot." Dean shifted his hips so that his cock was rubbing up against Sam's now. Sam hissed, rocking against Dean.

Dean kept working his fingers in Sam's hair, tipping his head back slightly, baring Sam's throat, kissing it. "Gonna lay you down on that beach towel, lick all the salt off you." Sam groaned. "Fuck, Sam. I can just taste it." Dean dragged his tongue over Sam's neck. "Licking that salt water off you. Off every inch of you."

Dean dropped his mouth down to Sam's left nipple, took it into his mouth, and gently moved Sam's head into the spray, bent back so that no water ran into Sam's face. Sam trembled, panic flaring. Dean bit down gently. Sam gasped, arching into it, as Dean rinsed the shampoo from his hair, teeth and tongue playing over the hard nub.

When Sam's hair was rinsed clean, Dean took the bar of soap from the soap dish and ran it over Sam's chest, working up a rich lather. Sam reached for Dean, demanding a kiss. And Dean gave Sam what he wanted, opening his mouth to Sam. Chests slick with soap, they slid against each other, Sam moaning at the slick sensation.

Dean lathered up Sam's stomach and arms, keeping Sam in the warm water, not caring that he was cold. He moved close again, kissed Sam harder, sliding against Sam's slippery body. Then he moved back, spun Sam to face the shower, body pressed up against him.

Sam tensed again as the water vapor rose up around his face. But Dean was ready. He held him close, one hand lightly pressed to Sam's chest, holding the soap. "'S ok. I got you. Just breathe in."

Sam took a shuddering breath. "Dean—"

Dean wrapped his other hand around Sam's cock, started working it nice and slow. "That feel good, baby boy?"

Sam made a low, happy sound.

"Fuck. Love doing this to you. Jacking you off."

Sam's hips pumped forward. "Yeah. There you go, sweetheart. Fuck my fist."

Dean rubbed his soapy chest against Sam's back, sliding it back and forth. Sam let his his head fall back against Dean's shoulder, and did what Dean told him, fucking Dean's fist, red-faced, mouth open.

"Christ. So fucking hot, Sammy." Dean went to his knees, and soaped up Sam's thighs, then ran a soap-slick hand between Sam's legs.

"Fuck." Sam put his right palm on the shower wall and leaned forward, water running over his back.

"Thought you'd like that." Dean soaped Sammy up nice and good, fingers circling his rim, teasing it. "Get you nice and clean for me." Dean let the shower water sluice over Sam, washing away all the lather.

Dean brushed his mouth over the soft curve of Sam's ass. "You want me to?"

Sam shivered. "Yeah."

Dean put his palms on either side of Sam's ass and held him open, dragging his tongue up the center.

Sam moaned.

"Shhh, baby boy. Gotta keep quiet."

Sam bit his lip, and spread his legs wider. Dean lapped at Sam's hole, closing his eyes against the spattering water hitting him in the face. He licked and sucked, reveling in the feel of Sam under his tongue, opening to him, feeling Sam shake and squirm.

"You love this so much."

Sam showed Dean, with little movements of his body and soft, needy sounds, how true that was.

When he couldn't take it any longer, he stood up, reaching for the conditioner. He slicked up both their cocks, and then turned to face the side wall. "Come here." Sam moved behind him, and Dean backed up so that Sam's cock slipped between his thighs.

Sam swore as Dean clamped his legs together. "Feels good, huh?" Sam pressed his open mouth to Dean's shoulder, nodding.

Dean guided Sam's hand to his cock, stifling a cry as his fingers tightened around him. "Come on, Sammy."

Sam pumped his hips, fucking Dean's strong thighs, working his cock with right hand.

"You like that?"

"God, "Sam whispered. "God."

"Can't wait to get inside you, baby boy. But you know what? After that?" Dean's voice dropped to a low purr. "Want to feel you inside me."

Sam's whole body shuddered, hips pushing against Dean frantically.

"You want that, baby boy? Wanna do that to me? Fuck me like that? Get inside me, make me come on your cock?"

"Dean. Fuck. Yeah." Sam broke, coming hard, violent tremors running through him, biting down on Dean's shoulder. And Dean gave Sam what he wanted, came so hard for his little brother, open mouth pressed to the white tile, spurting against it, squeezing his thighs to milk a tremendous aftershock out of Sam.

Sam sighed, softening, pulling away and turning Dean to face him.

They kissed, cooling water rinsing away any trace of what they had just done.

Dean turned the water off, and they stepped out onto the thick bath mat.

"So that was your plan? Take my mind off stuff by distracting me?"

Dean rubbed a towel over Sam's hair. "Kinda. I figured we have to give you good associations with water." Dean smiled, sweet and a little sleepy. "So I'm gonna shower with you. Every day. And make you come."

Sam blinked. "That could work."

Dean tousled his own hair quickly, and dried Sam off with another towel. "I'll be damned."

Sam frowned. "What?"

Dean traced his fingers over Sam's chest. "That vinegar trick. It's totally working."


	26. A Knock at the Door

Part of what Sam and Dean loved about staying at Bobby's was that Bobby knew the value of a home-cooked meal. John kept them fed, technically. Take-out Chinese, microwave pizza, pasta in cans and boxes, and bagged salads as a concession to Sam, but the only thing John could actually cook was hamburgers.

Charred black, grey on the inside, tasting of salt and black pepper, hamburgers.

Bobby was no chef, but he could make simple food well.

While Sam and Dean were in the shower, he made up fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans.

When the boys came into the kitchen, hair still damp, Bobby was using tongs to flip chicken in two ancient cast-iron skillets an inch deep in bacon grease, and hollering at John, who was trying to help by doing the mashed potatoes. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, are you TRYING to make glue? Just—just stop." John let go of the spoon with which he'd made several vigorous passes through the mash.

Bobby grabbed the spoon. "Do not beat the damn thing. You do that, it gets gummy. Idjit."

He took up the hand masher. "You mash them. That's why it's called mashed potatoes. See the linguistic fucking connection? Mash. Not beat 'em with a goddamn spoon until the whole thing seizes up like an engine run dry of oil." He shoved the masher deep into the pot of potatoes several times. "See? You add butter and milk and salt. And you mash it." Bobby glanced at Sam and Dean. "It's a wonder you boys made it to puberty."

Sam and Dean could not hide the smiles on their faces. Their father made absolutely disgusting mashed potatoes.

John walked away from Bobby and his beloved potatoes, and examined Sam's face and hands. "See? It's working already." Sam's skin was much clearer, the bruising having faded remarkably.

Sam beamed. "Yeah?"

Dean clenched his jaw. The way Sam lit up when John paid attention to him made sense, given how many years they'd been at each other's throats, but it still rankled.

John patted Sam's cheek, his white teeth flashing as he smiled. "Yeah."

Sam and Dean set the table, and John and Bobby brought the food out. Sam noticed a portion set aside on the stove. He raised an eyebrow. "That's for the others."

Sam paused. "The ones outside?"

Bobby nodded. "Yep. Zack, Bosie and Big Lou."

"Why don't they come eat with us?"

John and Bobby looked at each other. "Well," John began. "They're...guarding."

"So, what, you bring them plates of food?"

"Um… yeah. Basically." Bobby scratched his head.

"They should come eat inside like regular people." Sam was firm. "If they have to guard us, they can guard us from in here."

John and Bobby came to an agreement without saying a word. "Well, alright then," Bobby said. Set the table for three more."

John went out to get them, and Sam set three more places at the long dining room table.

The three hunters came in, clearly grateful for the warmth of Bobby's house, with the central heat on and a roaring fire in the fireplace.

Bobby passed the giant bowl of mashed potatoes to his left, first scooping out a generous portion. The platter of fried chicken made the rounds, as did the buttered green beans.

Once everyone had full plates, Bobby spoke. "Before you heathens take a bite, I'm saying grace. After a fashion." Bobby bowed his head, and a fluent stream of Japanese came out of his mouth.

Dean stared at him. "Bobby?"

"It means thank you for the damn food. " His eyes shone.

Everyone dug in. Dean took a bit of chicken thigh and groaned. "Bobby. I love you."

Zack, the lanky hunter, chewed, swallowed and said in a drawl, "Is that paprika?"

"Too easy."

Zack took another bite of chicken, juice running down his chin. "Wait…hang on…chipotle?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you." Bobby couldn't hide his pleased grin.

Bosie ate quietly, but when she looked at anything at all, she stared at Sam.

He caught her looking at him, and when he met her gaze, she looked away, embarrassed.

The third hunter ate his food at a lightening pace, refused seconds, and excused himself. "Gotta check the perimeter."

John shook his head. "Big Lou. Takes things kinda seriously."

Sam, not usually one for fried food, ate like a starving man. He cleared his first plate in minutes, and loaded it up again.

Under the table, Dean bumped his foot against Sam's, smiled at him over a bite of mashed potatoes. "You're in a good mood."

Sam wiped his mouth. "Feeling a lot better." His eyes met Dean's. "Almost 100%."

Dean swallowed, his eyes suddenly bright. "That's great."

The expression of relief on John's face was almost heartbreaking—as was the fear underneath. Once Sam was mostly recovered, he would have no excuse to not tell him the truth.

Dean casually slipped his hand under the table. "Dad, pass the potatoes?" Everyone's eyes automatically moved to John, and Dean took the opportunity to squeeze Sam's thigh, and shoot Sam a private look.

Bosie and Zack cleared the plates and started in on the dishes. John and Bobby disappeared into Bobby's den.

Dean tugged Sam into the hallway leading to Bobby's library. "You really mostly better?" He toyed with the hem of Sam's t-shirt.

Sam nodded, leaning closer towards Dean. "Yeah. My ribs don't even hurt anymore. I'm sore, yeah, but it's a lot better. My arm still hurts…" Sam looked at his cast.

"Oh, Sam." Dean shook his head, his thrill at Sam being nearly ready disappearing in the face of the epic magnitude of his failure.

"What?"

"I'm so lame."

"What?"

"I can't believe I… Jesus. Come here."

Dean pulled Sam into the living room, sat him down on the couch, ran into Bobby's den and came back clutching a handful of pens.

"Oh no."

Dean grinned. "Oh yes."

Dean sat cross-legged on the couch, put Sam's cast in his lap, and began to draw.

On the way outside, Bosie leaned over the couch, and thrust a paper bag at Sam. "Here."

She walked outside with Big Lou, not looking back.

Sam opened the bag. It contained a giant bar of Hershey's Chocolate with Almonds.

"You're totally sharing that, right?" Dean kept drawing, eyes fixed on the cast.

"Maybe." Sam peered up at Dean through his thick eyelashes.

"Dude. You're SO sharing that." Dean's tongue darted out, swiped across his lower lip in that totally involuntary way that happened to drive Sam crazy.

"Yeah. I'm sharing." Sam glanced at his cast. "Did you… is that a penis?"

"Come on, Sammy. I'm a guy. Guys draw penises on casts. That's what we do."

Dean concentrated hard, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, drawing a shape in red pen.

"Devil's trap? On my cast?"

"'S right. In case a tiny demon happens to crawl up your arm."

Sam smiled. "Dean."

Dean looked up.

Sam mouthed, "I love you."

Dean rubbed his thumb over the back of Sam's hand.

There was a loud knock at the door. Everyone in the house snapped to attention.

Bobby looked through the peephole, and relaxed visibly. He opened the door."It's alright. It's just Reggie."

When Bobby saw the expression on Reggie's face, though, he tensed up again.

"Where's John?" Reggie's eyes were wild.

John emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. "Hey, what's—"

Reggie pushed his way into the house, grabbed John by the arm. "Come on. Both of you. Outside."

Sam and Dean stared at each other. Sam started to shake.

"It's alright, Sam." Dean put his hand on Sam's knee, and stared at the front door. "It's gonna be fine."

"You have to come with me. Right now."

"Reg, it's 10 at night. What the hell is so—"

"I found Spivey."

Bobby and John looked at each other in confusion.

"Well, he ain't exactly hard to find. We left the bodies in the warehouse. Made it look like a meth deal gone wrong."

Reggie spat out his toothpick.

"I found him. Alive."


	27. The Time is Nigh

_The last section of the most recent commission of update chapters!_

John's face drained of color. "Dean dropped him. That knife went right through his spine. And I finished him off." He looked at Bobby. "You saw me kill him."

Bobby blew out a breath and bent over, hands on his knees, like he was about to pass out.

John suddenly turned to Reggie. "Where is he? You didn't bring him here, did you?"

Reggie frowned. "I wouldn't bring that son-of-a-bitch within ten miles of Sam." He jerked his head toward the east. "I've got him in lockdown. A couple of my friends are keeping a real close eye on him until we get there."

"Is he talking?" Bobby straightened up.

Reggie reached into the pocket of his duster and pulled out a wooden cylinder. Unscrewing the top, he pulled out another toothpick and stuck it in his mouth. "If you can call it talking."

The three men went inside. Sam and Dean were on the couch, Dean with his arm around Sam protectively.

"Got a sec, Dean?"

Dean's face darkened. He patted Sam's shoulder. "Be right back."

They went into Bobby's den. Bobby went to shut the door, but Dean put his arm out. "No. I need to see him."

Reggie spoke. "I decided to do some digging around. See if I could help. I went back to that warehouse, and…" He blew out a breath. "I found Earle Spivey. He was alive. Curled up in the corner of the room babbling nonsense. And not a mark on him."

Dean's eyes went wide, then flickered to Sam. He was staring at the fire, clearly trying not to look in the room at them.

"How is that possible?"

"I found sulphur all over that place."

Dean balled his hands into fists. "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know. But we're going to find out." Reggie looked up at John and Bobby. "I need to take them with me to where he's being kept." He put his hand on Dean's shoulder. "We need you to stay here with Sam. Keep him safe. Can you do that?"

Dean looked at Sam. His head was bowed, hair hanging in his face, strands painted gold and red from the firelight.

"Yeah. I can do that."

Bobby spoke. "What do we tell him?"

Everyone looked to Dean.

"We tell him the truth."

John frowned. "You really think he can handle it? Knowing Spivey is alive somehow?"

Dean felt the anger flare. He stepped into John's space. "He's not ready to know why all this happened, maybe. And that's on both of you to tell him, not me." Bobby nodded. "But this thing with Spivey? You told me. And I'm not gonna lie to Sam."

"Sometimes lying is the best thing you can do for someone, Dean." John's voice was resonant, soothing. For the first time, Dean heard that voice he'd heard from his father's mouth so many times, and recognized it for what it was. Manipulation.

Dean could play that game too. When he spoke, he deliberately spoke in a deeper tone. Older. The voice of a commander. "I'm not lying to Sam."

They all went into the living room.

Sam looked up at them, fear evident on his face. "It's something real bad, huh."

Dean closed his eyes for a moment. Then he sat down, took Sam's hand, squeezed it hard. "Reggie went back to the warehouse, and he found Spivey still alive. Out of his mind. Sulphur all over."

Sam's fingers tensed convulsively, and he started to shake. "Uh-uh. Nope."

John's face contorted at the sight. "He's all locked up. We're not going to let him get anywhere near you, Sam. We're headed there now. I'll get to the bottom of this."

Dean put his arm around Sam. "Hey. Sammy. Look at me." He brushed the hair out of Sam's face. Sam fought for composure, took a few deep breaths, and opened his eyes. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. I promise."

Sam smiled faintly.

"Why aren't you two wearing your knives?" Reggie's voice was rough.

Dean blinked rapidly. "I… we.. um, we haven't left the house, so—"

"You need to have them on you or within arm's reach. All the time."

Dean went upstairs to get them. When he came back down, John and Bobby had disappeared, packing up what they needed to take with them.

Dean flopped down next to Sam, who still looked scared and miserable. Reggie pulled up a chair and sat down in front of them.

"I was meaning to tell you about this before. The knives. You need to do a ritual. Bind them to you."

Dean looked at Reggie in confusion.

Reggie smiled. "Dean, I don't just make knives."

Sam perked up at the prospect of learning a new ritual. "What's the ritual?"

"That's up to you two."

Sam frowned.

"Some rituals, all the little steps are critical. Like the exorcism spell. If you get a word wrong, it don't work."

"Klaatu verata necktie." Sam shot Dean a mischievous glance, pleased at the chance to use one of their in-jokes.

"That's right. Just like in Army of Darkness." Reggie repressed a smile, but his eyes gave away his amusement.

Dean's mouth fell open.

"I do make the time to watch movies every now and again. Don't look so shocked." Reggie leaned forward. "Anyway, some rituals, what matters is how real they are to the people doing them. It's got to be personal."

He laid his hands on the knives in Dean's lap. "These? They won't be completely yours until you make them that way. The one thing that's critical is each knife needs a bit of blood from both of you. But you need to make up the ritual yourself." He looked at both of them in turn. "And it needs to draw up strong emotion. It needs to matter—a lot."

Sam placed his hand in Dean's. "We can do that."

John came into the living room. "We're all set. I gave Zack and the rest a heads up. They're going to pull in closer to the house, keep a tight watch. They won't come inside unless there's trouble, or you call them. Ok?"

Sam stood, looking tense and nervous.

John pulled Sam into a huge, long hug. Sam seemed surprised, but John didn't let go, and finally Sam relaxed into it, breathing out. John stroked Sam's hair, and whispered something in Sam's ear. Sam squeezed his father tighter. They stayed that way for a long moment.

When they broke apart, John's eyes were wet. So were Sam's. John placed the palm of his hand on Sam's cheek, and just looked at his youngest son.

He stepped to Dean, gave him the manly hug with three staccato thumps across the upper back. "I'll call you in the morning."

Reggie hung back until the others were out of earshot. "Remember what I said. Don't wait too long."

"We won't." Sam stuck out his hand.

"Oh hell no." Reggie ignored the invitation to shake hands and pulled Sam in for a bear hug. Then Dean. "Don't you worry." His grin was infectious. "I got this covered."

The sound of car engines faded into silence. The fire in the fireplace had nearly gone out.

Dean came up behind Sam and put his arms around him. Sam breathed out.

"So, what did Dad say to you?"

Sam made a small laugh. "Said he loved me, and was proud I was his son."

"Whoa."

"Yeah. Better late than never, right?"

Dean held Sam close and nuzzled the back of Sam's neck.

"So tired." Sam closed his eyes and tipped his head, giving Dean better access to that exquisitely sensitive spot behind his left ear, shivering when Dean's lips brushed it.

"Long day, huh?" It had been. For both of them."Let's go to bed."

Dean made sure the fire screen was fully closed, and turned off the downstairs lights, then they trudged upstairs. They brushed their teeth together in front of the single sink, like they always did.

They put on their flannel pants and crawled into bed. Dean lay on his back and Sam curled up in his arms.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was sleepy. "'S it ok if you just… like… hold me for a while?"

Dean kissed the top of Sam's forehead. "I'll hold you all night. Keep you safe."

Sam made a soft sound of pleasure. "But tomorrow. If they aren't back? I want you to."

"Want me to what?" Dean traced little circles on Sam's shoulder.

"You know."

Dean forgot to breathe for a second.

"You're sure?"

Sam tipped his head up, brushed his mouth over Dean's. "Real sure."

Dean murmured, "Well, ok."

"You're trembling."

"Yeah."

"Is that good?"

Dean laughed. "Yeah, Sammy. That's real good. I just… I really want to. Been waiting… you don't even know how long."

Sam's smile was pure joy. "Yeah?"

"You have no idea."

Sam kept looking at Dean, a curious expression on his face.

"What?"

"Your eyes 'r so pretty."

"Did you take a pain pill, Sammy?"

Sam snorted. "No. I always think your eyes are pretty. Just…never told you. Thought you'd make fun of me."

Dean put his hand on Sam's cheek, held his face and kissed him slow and sweet. "You can tell me things like that whenever you want. I won't make fun."

"Mmm. Yay."

As Sam drifted into sleep, fingers twitching on Dean's chest like a dreaming cat, Dean closed his eyes and prayed, prayed like he'd never prayed for anything, that they wouldn't come back tomorrow.


	28. Really Frickin' Nigh

Dean awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of rain pattering on the roof, running down the window in thick rivulets. And to the sound of Sam whimpering in his sleep.

Dean pulled him in closer, throwing his pajama-covered leg over Sam's calf. Sam was sweaty, radiating heat like a furnace, sleeping fitfully.

Then he started talking.

Sam had never talked in his sleep.

"Like hell." Sam tensed, then faded back into slumber.

A few moments later, he began trembling violently. "Dead. I saw you. You died."

Dean stroked his back. "No one's here. Just you and me. It's ok."

Sam flinched. "Touch him… I'll kill you."

Dean shook Sam. This was not the kind of dream to let someone linger in.

Sam's shaking increased. "No… NO. Get your …fuck…" and then Sam screamed, convulsing on the bed, screaming like someone was electrocuting him.

Dean rolled on top of Sam, holding his jerking body down with his weight so he didn't throw himself off the bed. He didn't force him or push him. He just whispered in his ear, soft and low. "Sammy. Hey Sam. Come on, sweetheart." Sam stopped screaming, made a small surprised sound. "Yeah. There you go. Wake up. It's ok." Dean stroked Sam's hair, so soft, so gentle.

"Dean?" Sam was soaked with sweat and breathing rapidly.

Dean rolled back onto his side, pulling Sam over to face him. "Right here." His hand didn't stop moving, gently stroking Sam's side in long, steady strokes. Even though his own heart was racing, he didn't let his fear response show.

"Oh god."

"Must have been a bad one."

Sam pushed the sweat-damp hair from his forehead. "Oh yeah."

"Spivey?"

Sam nodded. "He was here. He was right at the foot of the bed. Said he was gonna…" Sam swallowed hard. "Said he was gonna take you with him this time. Hurt you." Sam shuddered. "Send me tapes."

"So not gonna happen."

"Then that other guy. Did that thing with his hand like he was shocking me. And Spivey started dragging you away."

"Sam. Nothing's gonna happen to me." Dean kissed Sam. "And nothing's gonna happen to you."

Slowly, Sam relaxed, sheltered by Dean's arms, and fell asleep.

Dean stayed awake, watching over Sam in the darkness, listening to the sound of the rain.

Dean awoke to Sam's mouth on his cock, warm and wet.

"Sam."

"Mmmm."

The surprise of it, the intensity of the pleasure that Sam would slip down between his legs as he slept and put his mouth on him, had Dean coming in seconds, fists clenched in the bedsheets.

Sam held Dean's softening cock in his mouth, did not want to let it go. He nursed on it softly, making those soft little sounds of pleasure that crawled inside Dean's chest and undid him.

He only let it slip out when Dean stroked his hair and said, "My turn."

Soon it was Sam thrashing his head back and forth on the pillow, Dean's mouth wrapped around his cock, doing that thing with the tip of his tongue in the slit like he was going to go in after all that come if Sam didn't give it to him.

And Sam did.

They lay in each other's arms, soft grey light spilling into the room. Dean started to fall back asleep.

Sam nudged him.

"Five more minutes."

"Dean." Sam's voice came in a whisper. "Bacon."

"And I'm up." Dean opened his eyes.

They threw on t-shirts and warm flannel overshirts, and trainers, and went down to the kitchen.

There were still leftover biscuits in the refrigerator, and Sam fried up two packages of the thick-cut bacon Bobby got from a local hunter who also butchered his own meat (since knife skills were knife skills) and smoked his own hams and bacon.

Dean started a pot of strong coffee, and came up behind Sam at the stove.

"Careful." Sam flipped a slice of bacon.

Dean wrapped his arms around Sam, pressing his crotch against Sam's ass.

Sam held onto Dean's arms and arched his back, moving against Dean.

"Can't wait, baby boy."

Sam breathed out hard through his nose. "Me neither." They both glanced at the phone bank on the wall, where Bobby had receivers for all of his different phone lines for different purposes. The one that was for the actual Bobby Singer was a plain white wall-mounted phone.

They stuffed themselves with bacon, biscuits and coffee.

"I'm gonna grab a shower. Wanna come?"

Sam smiled. "I'm good." He went to clear out the ash and build a new fire.

Dean nodded. "I'll make it quick."

He grabbed one of the kimonos Bobby kept around instead of proper bathrobes, and took a shower with water as hot as he could stand it. Toweling off, he tugged on a clean pair of underwear and the black kimono.

Walking downstairs, he saw Sam closing the front door. "Hey." The worry in his voice was obvious.

"That was just Bosie. I gave her some bacon and stuff to take out to everyone."

Dean looked at Sam levelly. "Bosie, huh."

"What?"

"Nothing." Dean smacked Sam's arm and went to the CD player in the corner of the living room. He started flipping through Bobby's collection. One CD made him snort.

Sam went into the kitchen to refill their coffee.

Dean slipped the CD into the machine and pressed play.

"Girl… you'll be a woman soon..." filled the air, followed by the strumming of acoustic guitar.

Sam appeared in the doorway. "You didn't. You did not just…"

Dean whirled the sleeves of his kimono, spinning to face Sam. He mouthed the words. "Don't you know girl… you'll be a woman soon. Please. Come take my hand."

"Oh my god."

Dean shimmied his shoulder, raising his eyebrow, turning in a half circle.

"You're so dead."Sam's mouth was curled into a classic Sam bitchface, but his eyes were amused.

Dean turned back around and pointed at Sam, with a smarmy smile on his face, and kept dancing.

Sam set down the mugs of coffee on a side table and lunged for Dean, sending him over the edge of the couch onto the cushions.

"Easy there, tiger."

"Dead."

Sam wrestled Dean onto his back and straddled him.

"I'm not a girl." Sam ground his crotch hard against Dean. His flannel pajama pants did nothing to hide his arousal.

Dean stopped laughing and stared up at Sam."Yeah you're not."

"If you want a girl, there's one right outside. Bet she'd let you."

"Shhh. Sammy. Don't want a girl. Want you."

Sam pulled Dean's kimono open and ran his fingers over Dean's bare chest.

"I'm not a girl. I'm not a kid either." Sam rubbed his cock, already impressive in size, against Dean's.

"No. You're not."

Sam lowered himself down, took Dean's mouth in his. "Fuck. Dean."

Dean shivered. Sam was being so assertive.

He loved it.

Sam shifted so his cock was rubbing against the front of Dean's thigh, his own leg spreading Dean's thighs open wide and slotting up against his cock.

"Yeah? Want to come like this, Sammy? Rub off on me?"

"Gonna." Sam hung his broken arm off the side of the couch, shoved his right hand between Dean and the couch and cupped his ass, squeezing it hard, humping Dean's bare thigh without a shred of shame. "And so are you."

Dean gasped.

"Sure that's what you want, Dean? My cock? Sure you don't wish I was your little sister instead?"

Sam's voice was roughed with desire, but there was something underneath it. Something that wasn't joking around.

Dean put his hands on Sam's face, held him as he kissed him hard. "Sam. I love your cock. Love that you're a guy."

Sam's expression softened.

Dean grabbed Sam's ass with both hands, held on tight, rubbed up against Sam's thigh, pressed Sam's cock down on his thigh harder. "I love it. Love how it feels in my mouth. Love how you taste when you come." His voice deepened with urgency. "I want you to fuck me too, Sam. Want to feel your cock in my ass."

Sam groaned, hips pistoning.

"But I wanna fuck you first. Jesus, Sam… wanna fuck you so bad."

Sam was reduced to moans and pleading sounds.

Dean pulled Sam's pajamas down, his cock slapping heavy against Dean's bare thigh, and pressed the tip of his index finger against Sam's hole. "Gonna fuck you so good, baby boy." And Sam sucked in a single breath and came, convulsing and crying out.

And Dean was right behind him, chanting Sam's name, shaking apart beneath him.

They lay like that, catching their breath, the soundtrack still playing, a woman singing a blues song to a simple guitar accompaniment.

And that's when the white phone rang.

Sam jumped to his feet. Dean pulled the kimono around him and walked quickly to the phone.

"Bobby Singer's residence."

After a second, he mouthed, "Dad" at Sam. He listened for a few minutes, nodding.

Sam paced.

Then he closed his eyes, relief flooding his face.

"Yeah. Ok. Sure. We'll be fine. Take your time."

He hung up the phone.

Sam stared. "Well?"

"Not coming home 'till tomorrow morning."

The smile that broke across Sam's face was remarkable. Somehow it contained that purity and innocence that Sam always possessed, but with it was coupled a knowing, capable sensuality, a carnal abandon that stole Dean's breath away and held it hostage. Sam's mouth parted, his eyes widened, as though he was already feeling Dean enter him for the first time.

He stepped up to Dean, brushed his mouth across Dean's lips. "Guess I better get ready."

Dean pulled Sam close.

"You're shaking again."

"Sam." Dean didn't even try to explain. He didn't have to.


	29. It's Time Baby Boy

Dean turned the object in his hands over and over. Then he set it on the bedside table. And picked it up again, compulsively flipping it again.

Sam appeared in the doorway, done with whatever he needed to do to get ready. He looked around the room, stunned.

On every available surface, shelf and nook was a lit candle. Dean had ransacked the house and found every candle Bobby had that wasn't special purpose: white votives, ruby tapers melted down to mere nubs, candles in glass cylinders with Mexican saints depicted on the outside, oil candles, he'd taken them all.

The room was transformed, light dancing on the oak paneling, painting the wood with a burnished, caramel glow.

"Dean. You… wow."

Dean stood by the bed, looking as nervous as a senior on prom night the moment he first sees his date. "I'd have totally done the rose petal thing but, you know. Wrong time of year. And I couldn't exactly get to a flower store." Dean was babbling, and he knew it, but he couldn't stop.

Sam's face lit up with surprise. "You're nervous."

Dean blushed.

"You're actually nervous. You." Sam walked a few steps into the room.

"Oh, and what—you're not?"

"A little."

Dean breathed out, relieved it wasn't just him.

Sam placed his hand on Dean's. "What's that?"

Dean let Sam take the object. "A mix tape? You made a mix tape?"

"Uh… yeah."

"For… for this?" Sam waved his hand, indicating the room.

Dean swallowed. "For your first time."

"When did you… I mean, you didn't do it today."

Dean rubbed his lips together. "Been working on it for a while."

Sam spoke in a near whisper. "How long?"

"About a year."

A half-second later, Dean had a baby moose all over him, all long arms and legs. Sam kissed him hard, messy and eager.

"Guess you like it."

Sam nuzzled his baby moose snout into Dean's neck. "You're a romantic."

"Shut up."

"I totally won't tell."

"Better not." Dean made his bad-ass face, but secretly, he was giddy at Sam's reaction.

"Let's hear it then." Sam nodded to the tape player.

Dean put the tape in the player, and paused. "Hope you don't think it's too cheesy." He'd already checked the volume to make sure it was just right, not too loud but audible over the sound of the rain.

The sounds of an acoustic guitar came from the speakers.

_It is the springtime of my loving, the second season I am to know_

Sam just smiled, came to Dean, raised his arms around his neck and kissed him, mouth tasting of peppermint, lips so soft.

Dean had kissed Sam hundreds of times. But this felt like the first time. The first time he'd felt Sam yield to him, let his tongue inside his parted lips. The first time he heard Sam make that soft little sigh and press himself closer. The first time he wrapped his hand in Sam's hair, the lush locks smooth in his fingers.

Dean's hands shook.

Sam stepped back, leading Dean toward the bed. Dean allowed himself to be led.

Sam crawled up on the bed and settled on his back. He looked up at Dean, standing at the foot of the bed, and extended his hand. "Dean."

Dean took Sam's hand and came to him, laying next to him. He stroked Sam's cheek. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but no words came.

No words at all.

Sam closed his eyes at the feel of Dean's fingers on his face. When he opened them again, his pupils were huge and dark.

"Dean. Please."

Fingers curled in Dean's shirt, tugging. Dean pulled it off over his head, feeling the air on his naked skin, feeling Sam's eyes on him, feeling so seen.

Feeling so loved.

Sam traced his fingertips over Dean's bare skin. His hands were shaking too.

_But I know that I love you so_

Dean removed Sam's shirt. Smiled at him gently, his hands on the waistband of Sam's pajamas.

Sam raised his hips, let Dean pull the fabric down.

Dean looked at Sam, naked and stretched out. The candles poured honeyed light over his skin, playing across the sleek muscles.

Dean pressed his mouth to Sam's bare stomach, murmured words Sam did not have to hear to understand.

_This is the wonder of devotion_

Lips parted, moist breath exhaled over Sam's skin. "So soft," Dean whispered. He kissed him softly, so softly, like dandelion puffs drifting in the breeze.

He moved lower, breathing out over Sam's cock, already ready for Dean. Always ready for Dean.

Sam moaned as Dean stroked his cock with his fingers.

Dean pressed soft kisses down the length of his shaft, and moved lower.

Sam gasped, and parted his thighs.

The strains of bluesy electric guitar and a simple drum rhythm. A gentle, sensual keyboard line.

_Working seven to eleven every night_

Dean settled in between Sam's legs, moved his tongue lower, swiping across his tight rim.

Sam trembled, opening to Dean.

His tongue, so clever and needy, twined over and around, lapped and stroked and teased out moan after moan.

_cause I love you, baby_

_How I love you, darling_

_How I love you, baby_

Sam arched his back, tossed his head, stretched his legs wide open, giving himself over to Dean completely.

Dean pulled back, panting, peeled off his pants and took up the bottle of lube he'd bought a long time ago, just for this very night.

At the sight of him coating his fingers, Sam gave a small sob.

Dean slid up next to Sam, kissed him slow and deep.

He dropped his hand between Sam's legs, ran the tip of his index finger in a tight circle around Sam's rim.

Sam clutched at Dean's shoulders and arched down, taking his finger inside.

Dean moaned. Sam was already yielding, more open than he expected. He slipped a second finger in. And Sam took it beautifully, shaking with pleasure, lips pressed against Dean's, drawing Dean's tongue into his mouth.

Dean worked his fingers slowly, thumb pressed to his perineum. Sam sucked on Dean's tongue like it was his cock, eliciting a gasp from Dean.

"Easy, Sam. Got all day."

"Can't wait anymore. Need you." Sam moved his hand between his legs, took Dean's hand, guided his two fingers out and pressed three fingers together, urging him. "Please."

Dean bit Sam's shoulder, overcome by the intensity of desire.

He pressed gently, and Sam opened to him, took all three fingers in a long, slow slide all the way to the base.

"Fuck. Sammy." Dean kissed and bit at Sam's throat. Sam writhed, rocking himself on Dean's fingers, almost crying with need. He worked Sam open, but Sam hardly needed the preparation. His body just opened to Dean like it was born for this.

"Now. Dean. Please. Now. God, please."

"Ok, Sammy." Sam's eyes flew open. His gaze locked onto Dean's.

"It's time, baby boy."

The sound of the rain was heavier now, fat drops striking the roof harder. Dean straddled Sam, and reached over to the end table where the knives were laid out.

He pressed one into Sam's hand, guided the tip to the spot at the base of this throat. His green eyes were dark. He wrapped his hand around Sam's wrist, pressed gently, bared his throat to Sam.

Sam picked up the other knife, gave it to Dean, brought the tip to the same hollow at the base of his throat.

Neither of them moved for a moment, eyes locked onto each other, naked in the flickering candlelight, twin blades at each other's throats. Then as one, they pressed sharp steel into vulnerable flesh and drew the knives downward.

A thin line of red welled up on their chests.

Without saying a word, without having planned a second of this in advance, both knew what to do next. They turned their blades flat, smoothed them over the trickle of blood on their own chests, mingling the other's blood with their own.

Perhaps it was their imagination, but the blades seemed to drink in the blood. Perhaps it was a trick of the light that the gemstone handles gleamed, new darker ruby highlights within.

Sam set the knives on the table quickly, and Dean lowered himself to Sam, kissing him like it was the last chance he'd ever have. Their blood mingled, smearing over their bare chests.

The tape kept playing.

_If it keeps on raining levee's going to break_

_If it keeps on raining levee's going to break_

_When the levee breaks have no place to stay_

Dean moved between Sam's legs, and cupped Sam's face in his hand.

He slicked up his hand again and smoothed his fingers over his cock, achingly hard and eager.

He positioned himself between Sam's legs again. They both were shaking so hard that Dean gave a little laugh.

Sam looked up at Dean, his face bright with so much love and desire that Dean couldn't bear it, had to drop his head to Sam's shoulder, tears falling hot on Sam's skin.

"I love you so much." Sam spread his thighs wider.

"I love you too." Dean took a deep breath and pressed the head of his cock against Sam. The feel of it barely breaching the outer rim made him shudder.

He held himself there, letting Sam just feel it, relax into it.

Sam moaned. His rim fluttered, yielded, and pulled Dean inside.

Sam made a soft sound of awe, and stared up at Dean. The expression on his face was pure wonder, like a kid the first time he sees fireworks or tastes chocolate cake.

Dean pressed a little further and held himself there. He wasn't pushing his way in. He waited until Sam's body was ready, and invited him.

Sam's breath was rapid, his face flushed. "Oh god. Oh god." He pressed his hips up, taking Dean a little deeper.

"You ok? This ok?" Dean examined Sam's face for signs of distress.

All he saw was pleasure so keen it looked like Sam was going to fall apart.

"Dean. Oh god. Dean." Sam lifted his hips higher and the entire head of Dean's cock penetrated him, past the second ring of muscle. Sam trembled, back arched, breath coming faster.

Dean bit his lip, trying desperately not to come.

"More. Please."

Dean pulled his hips back, and moved forward, going deeper. Sam grabbed Dean's ass, body sheened with sweat, spread his legs wider and pushed.

Dean slid all the way inside. All the way inside Sam. So tight and yet so yielding, surrounding him, so hot_ jesus like a furnace Sam always did run hot but Christ this was unreal_…

Sam burst into tears.

"Am I hurting you?" Dean started to pull out, but Sam held on with a death grip.

"Perfect. It's perfect." Sam's voice was choked with tears. He took Dean's head in his hands and kissed him, sobbing into his mouth.

They stayed like that for a long moment, just letting themselves feel it, feel how they were joined.

Finally, Dean pulled out slightly and moved back in. Sam's sobs were interrupted by a gasp of pleasure. He dropped his right hand to Dean's back, letting his broken arm rest on the bed.

Dean did it again, moving out farther, sliding all the way back in.

Sam made a choked sound.

"Please. Oh god please."

Dean wrapped his arms around Sam, holding him so tight, like he was trying to fuse them into one single being, and gave Sam what he wanted.

He moved inside him deep and slow, rocking into him, sucking the salt from Sam's throat, kissing the tears of joy from his face, driving the most astonishing range of sounds out of Sam: sounds of pleasure so keen it was shocking, shivery moans that conveyed achingly sincere love, low bossy sounds demanding more, pure joy when he got it.

"Sammy. Not gonna last."

Being inside Sam. Being inside Sam. His Sammy. Giving him everything, falling apart beneath him with the pleasure of it. It was too much.

Sam wrapped his arms around Dean, mouth open, cheeks bright red and took everything Dean gave him, wordlessly pleading for more. Their mingled blood smeared across their chests, both faces wet with tears, Dean pulled his hips back and drove into Sam hard, punching fierce cries out of him, twin cries echoed from his own throat.

"Sam Sam oh god Sammy…"

And the very second the pleasure shattered Dean, turning him into sparking nerve endings, sending every drop of fluid in his body out the end of his cock and deep inside Sam, that very second Sam lost it, cries cresting into a scream, spurting hot and wet all over Dean's belly, muscles fluttering and clenching so tight that Dean's orgasm amplified and flung itself off the cliff into _holy shit what the fuck is this can people die from coming this hard fuck yeah they can oh my fucking GOD_

And then words disappeared.

The very concept of spoken language vanished.

There was only Sam and Dean, not knowing where one ended and the other began, the tremors running through them rattling the bed so hard a wooden slat snapped in two, coming so hard, so pure, so inexpressibly beautifully that the angels themselves stared in wonder.

So perfectly that God wept with delight.

Only Sam and Dean and the sound of the rain, two souls willingly bound for eternity.


	30. She Burns

_This chapter comes after Chapter 28 in the timeline, BEFORE the Thanksgiving chapter and Coda. When I have written up to the Thanksgiving chapters, I will reorder and number all the chapters._

Reggie's car rolled up to the house at the end of the lane that stretched through an apple orchard. No other houses were within a mile. The windows were dark, covered with black fabric.

Reggie stood at the door and whistled a tune. Within seconds, the door clicked open. A massive bearded man stood in the doorway. "Hurry up." He waved them inside across the thick line of salt.

Nearly every available surface of the interior was covered with warding sigils and devil's traps.

"Name's Vesi. Come on. He's down here." Vesi moved fast for a man of his size, guiding them down narrow hallways to a staircase leading to the basement.

John, Bobby and Reggie descended the stairs. In the center of the room was Earle Spivey, bound in iron shackles on all four limbs, chained to four heavy iron rings embedded in the concrete floor. Below him was painted an elaborate devil's trap, with an extra circle of symbols on the outer rim.

A sallow-faced man with lank hair stood next to a 55-gallon drum of water holding a pump nozzle.

Bobby stared at him. "Don't tell me that's holy water."

"That was Pritchard's idea." Reggie nodded at the man.

Pritchard just grinned, revealing two missing front teeth.

Spivey was seated on the floor, arms wrapped around his legs, rocking back and forth.

"You got some visitors." Pritchard pulled the trigger and squirted Earle in the face with holy water.

Earle sputtered.

John frowned.

"You were expecting him to sizzle?" Pritchard said. "He don't. This stuff's for the big bad you know what's. If they come for him." Pritchard spat on the floor. "That was just to wake his ass up."

"Like sucking on a penny. Buried halfway up Satan's ASS." Spivey bellowed.

John and Bobby were startled.

"It's only your dignity. Suck it." Spivey muttered.

John stared at Reggie. "This…he's…"

"Totally insane. As far as I can make out."

Spivey pulled his socks off and began examining between his toes. "Pull the threads out. I can't hear you. Mumbler. Dirty tick mumbler."

He stared up at Reggie, eyes wild. "What you do when you think you're alone? It's unseemly."

Bobby rubbed his beard. "Oh, this is gonna be six kinds of fun."

Earle said in a sing-song, "They have wings, you know. Air squeakers. Flappy flappy flappy."

Reggie walked closer to Spivey. "Earle. Look at me."

Earle stared at the ceiling. "Knock at the door. Don't pull me out. I was drowning so sparkly."

"Earle!" Earle's eyes snapped into focus at the sound of Reggie's voice. "How is it you're alive?"

Earle laughed, a sick, quavering sound. "Unmade. Made. Unmade. Made."

John stood next to Reggie. "You were unmade. And then you were made again?" Earle's eyes whipped to John's. Something vaguely human crawled within his gaze.

"Made."

"Who made you? Who did this to you?"

"A goat to go away." Earle curled in on himself. "Nasty goat."

John rolled his eyes. "He's talking gibberish. We're not going to get anything out of him."

Bobby said, "I'm not so sure about that." He looked at Vesi and Pritchard quizzically. "Does he… has he attacked you?"

"No. He has not shown any sign of aggression," Vesi said.

Bobby stepped into the devil's trap and sat down next to Earle. "I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but…tell me about the goat."

Earle's face twisted. "Za. Za." He shook his head frantically. "Crafty worm." He stared around the room at everyone in turn, holding up his hands, wrists dangling limp from the fetters, hoisting his fettered ankles into the air, balanced on his thin buttocks. "Like this! And then… gah!" Earle flung his limbs in four directions. "Pieces." He snapped his fingers. "Made." Another snap. "Unmade." His voice dropped into a murmur again. "Made. Unmade. Made. Unmade."

"Bobby, you're wasting your time. Goats? Worms?"

Bobby raised his hand to quiet John. "Hang on. " He leaned closer to Earle. "And Aaron shall cast lots upon the two goats."

Earle fell back in surprise.

"Earle. Listen to me. Aaron shall cast lots upon the two goats."

Earle sucked air through his teeth. "One lot for the Lord. The other lot for…" He began to tremble violently.

Bobby closed his eyes, rubbing his hand over his chin. "Oh god."

"What is it?"

"It's from the Bible. And Aaron shall cast lots upon the two goats. One lot for the Lord." Bobby looked up at John. "The other lot for Azazel."

Earle recoiled, stretching his chains as far as he could, scampering away from Bobby. "Za za!"

"What the hell is he saying?" John flung his hands out in frustration.

"Za-za-e'il."

Earle slapped the floor with his bare feet. "Za!

"It's from the Septuagint. Greek Old Testament. Means 'the strong one against God.' Za-za-e'il. Azazel."

"Who's Azazel?" Vesi asked.

"Fallen angel." Reggie said, spitting out his toothpick.

Bobby stared at Reggie in surprise.

"Hey, I've read Milton." Reggie frowned.

"Azazel's the head of the Grigori. Angels who were sent to watch over humans. But they became corrupted. Took human wives, had kids, got into pleasures of the flesh. God didn't like it, and cast them out. They turned demon. And Azazel's one of the nastiest."

"Crafty worm," Spivey muttered.

"Bobby." John put his hand on Bobby's shoulder, his face pale. "Spivey was hooked up with our demon. The one who… the one who murdered Mary. So… that demon…is this Azazel?"

Suddenly, a hand gripped John's ankle, underneath his pants leg, gripping bare skin. It was Spivey, who had scuttled close. "Ahhhhhhh…." Spivey's eyes rolled back in his head. John tried to pull away, but Spivey's slender fingers had a death grip on him. "Look up. Fire. Burns. She burns." His eyes flashed open, a searing, evil intelligence lit in them. "I see you've met my Master."

John wrenched his leg away, falling on his side.

Spivey hissed in a breath. "Winchester." He shook his head as if trying to clear away cobwebs. He focused on John as if seeing him for the first time. "John. Winchester." Spivey's body curled, folded, until he was on his knees, arms outstretched, prostrate before him. "My Master let me live for one reason." His words flowed, as if he had rehearsed them over and over. "To beg forgiveness from John Winchester.


	31. Don't Look Back

All eyes were on the huddled figure on the floor, palms pressed to the floor in penitence. "Please forgive me." Spivey writhed for a moment, as though struggling against his subjugation, and then mewled in pain and crawled closer to John.

John recoiled like a spider was about to crawl up his pants leg.

"Please forgive me for what I did to your son." Spit flew from Spivey's lips as he grudgingly pleaded with John. He contorted again, gasping, then spoke more earnestly, somehow with the capacity for coherent speech somewhat returned to him. "Please forgive me for hurting Sam Winchester. I did not have the right to harm him. Please forgive me for hurting Sam Winchester."

"That demon brought you back to life so you could apologize?" Bobby shook his head in utter disbelief, and dragged himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his joints.

"He punished me." Spivey shuddered, then shot a glance at John, dark with rage. "You know nothing of pain. He… glides pain. Like air. He is—" Spivey fluttered his hands in the air. "Us, with knives in our hands? We're children," he spat. "He punished me. For my fault, for my fault, for my most grievous fault. My Master left me here. He said you'd come back."

Spivey crept closer to John. "Please forgive me for hurting your son." He tipped his head up, peering up at John, his face creased with desperation. "John Winchester, please forgive me. And please beg Sam Winchester to forgive me. Sam Winchester is special. He is not to be touched."

Reggie's head whipped around at that.

"You said she burns." John seized Spivey's hair and pulled his head back hard. "Why did you say she burns?" His eyes were wild.

"I saw it. When I touched you." Spivey brushed his hand over John's wrist, and his eyes rolled back. "Pretty, pretty girl. Lit up like a candle." His eyes fluttered shut. "Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don't look back."

John pulled away, wiping his wrist on his pants leg, a look of horror on his face.

"Jesus Christ." Reggie took a few steps back.

Bobby's voice was shaky."That's how he knew exactly what we did. He touched his son's body. The demon blood. He saw it."

"Please forgive me, John Winchester." Spivey began rocking in place, repeating the phrase again and again. "Please forgive me, John Winchester, please forgive me, John Winchester..."

"What the hell are we going to do with him?" John rubbed his mouth.

"Well, for starters, you could tell him you forgive him," Reggie suggested.

John stared at Reggie like he'd just suggested selling their souls for a case of beer.

"Just to shut the man up. Driving me crazy." Reggie worried the toothpick in his mouth.

"Fine. Spivey, I forgive you, now shut the fuck up."

Spivey's mouth snapped shut.

"Now what?"

"Killed him once. That was a good idea at the time," Bobby said.

Spivey moved lightening fast, grabbed hold of Bobby's hand before anyone realized how close he was. His eyes fluttered, then flared open, staring at Bobby in disbelief. Then he let go of Bobby's hand and started to laugh. The sound of it made the hairs on the back of their necks stand up. "Too good. That's too good. Bad little boys. Naughty, naughty…naughty!"

Spivey fixed his gaze upon an uncomprehending John. His expression was malevolent, gleeful. "And Johnny boy doesn't know."

His mouth opened as if to say something else, then froze, held in a perfect oval, eyes wide with surprise.

Reggie's knife flew through the air like a silvered diving bird, plunging into Spivey's heart, the mother-of-pearl handle quivering as the blade hit home.

Earle Spivey gurgled, blood surging from his mouth, and his eyes dimmed as the life drained from him, this time for good.

"Thing like that is too dangerous to keep alive." Reggie pulled his knife from Spivey's heart and wiped it off on his shirt.

"He's right." Vesi knelt and pressed two thick fingers to Spivey's neck, nodded to confirm he was dead. "You did the smart thing."

John stared at Bobby. "What was he talking about? What don't I know?"

Bobby shrugged. "John, there's a bunch you don't know about me, and I'm perfectly content to keep it that way. Man's gotta have his secrets."

John accepted the gentle deflection without realizing he'd been redirected to thinking the secret had to do with something in Bobby's personal life.

But the soft smile Reggie gave Bobby when John's back was turned showed that Reggie knew exactly what Bobby had done.

And Bobby knew that somehow, Reggie knew exactly who he was protecting and why. Just like he knew why Reggie had sent his best knife flying into Earle Spivey's chest before he could utter one more word.


	32. Some Monsters are Human

The body of Earle Spivey was still fettered and chained in the basement. All the hunters save Pritchard had gone upstairs to gather their thoughts.

It was late. Too late for anything other than a quick Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep (in hunter parlance, a shot of whiskey immediately before bed), and off to the rooms set up with decent beds with clean bedding.

Vesi's place was a safe house for hunters where anyone could come and hole up for a while, lick their wounds and get some rest and basic but decent food. In the summer, Vesi barbequed nearly every day. When it got too cold, he made stew or chili. All he ever asked for in return was alcohol. "I do the food, you do the drinks," he would say with a slap on the back.

It was too late for chili. And no one was hungry. Not after the strange scene in the basement, and the unsettling revelations. But there was whiskey. Whenever there were hunters, there was always a supply of Hunter's Helper.

Pritchard came up from the basement. "Still dead."

"Well, at least there's that." Bobby tossed back his shot of whiskey neat.

"I went ahead and left him chained up. I mean… just in case." Pritchard accepted a shot of whiskey. "I salted him though."

John pursed his lips. "Um…why?"

"Duh. Salt and burn." Pritchard rolled his eyes as though John was an idiot.

"Right. But we're not going to burn him tonight. What's the salt going to do?"

"Season him up if something comes in the night for a snack." Reggie tipped his shot glass side to side, watching the amber liquid slosh back and forth.

Pritchard's brows furrowed as he thought. Hard.

"The point is it couldn't hurt. So I salted him." Pritchard sucked down his shot, smacked his lips and stuck his hand out. "Hit me again."

Vesi obliged, then sat down across from Bobby and John. "Tomorrow, you come with me. My friend has a very good library. Many rare books on demon lore and the Grigori. He's even got a Daemonolatreiae Libri Tres."

Bobby perked up. "He's got a Remy? I've been looking for that for years. You think he'd let me copy it? Rufus is gonna shit bricks when he finds out."

"If anyone else asked, he would say no. But for you… I think yes."

John stared into his empty shot glass.

"You ok?" Bobby asked.

John shook his head. He looked haggard, with dark circles under his eyes. "A lot on my mind." He stood up wearily. "I need some sleep. We'll talk about everything tomorrow."

Pritchard said, "Good idea, pops. Night all."

"Sure you don't want to sprinkle a little rosemary on old Spivey first?" Reggie's eyes gleamed with amusement.

If Reggie had been a hunter of less standing, Pritchard might have said something. Instead, he just made a show of laughing. "Good one, man. Rosemary." And he disappeared around the corner.

Vesi roused himself and stood as well. "I'm going to bed too. You saw your rooms? Nice electric blankets. Brand new. You'll be good and warm."

Reggie glanced at Bobby. Bobby nodded his head almost imperceptibly.

"Thanks, Vesi. We'll head up in a minute." Reggie indicated toward the bottle. "I'll restock you on Maker's Mark tomorrow. Mind if we have another taste?"

Vesi thumped Reggie on the back. "You, my friend, may drink the whole bottle."

With that, Vesi retired.

Reggie poured another shot for him and Bobby. They drank it. Quickly. Reggie filled the shot glasses again.

This time, they nursed them slowly. Neither saying a word. Just staring at the hypnotic dance of flames in the fireplace.

"How long have you known?" Reggie stared straight ahead.

Bobby closed his eyes. "Since before they knew themselves."

Reggie looked at him. He said nothing. Just let the silence, comfortable and easy, linger until Bobby was ready to say more.

"They've always been… special. To each other. More than…" Bobby stumbled over the words.

"Just brothers." Reggie added.

"Yeah. I mean, the way those boys love each other… it's always been there." Bobby raised his head and met Reggie's gaze straight on. "It's nothing dirty or wrong. Nothing wrong with what there is between them."

Reggie just smiled at him, his eyes kind. Bobby dropped his head. "Purest love I've ever seen."

"Same here." Bobby looked up at Reggie quickly. Saw the truth of what he said on his face.

Bobby finished his shot. "I may regret this in the morning, but…" He extended his glass, and Reggie refilled it. "How did you figure it out… I mean, did you…"

"Didn't take long. It kind of shines off 'em, you know?"

Bobby nodded.

"But… I kinda saw 'em kissing in the back seat of my car." Reggie's moustache twitched.

Bobby's face darkened. "Damn it to hell. They gotta be more careful than that. Dangerous enough that they're guys, around here…"

"But the other thing."

Bobby dropped his face into his hands. "Damn hard to explain that one to folks who still don't even understand people being gay."

Reggie's expression changed. "Lots of folks still don't understand that."

Bobby picked up the bottle of whiskey and filled Reggie's empty shot glass. He drained it quickly before his trembling hand could spill any.

"I'm so sorry about what happened to Nathan."

Reggie just stared into the fire.

"When I lost Karen… it nearly killed me. But losing Nathan? Like that? I don't know how you kept going."

Reggie closed his eyes, fingers tightening on the shot glass, and kept them closed. "All that time hunting together, we were watching each other's backs for monsters. I forgot that some monsters are human."

"Did the police ever catch those guys?"

"No." Reggie's voice was chalk-soft, steeped with a sadness so keen it brought tears to Bobby's eyes.

Then Reggie tilted his head and looked at Bobby, his piercing blue eyes strikingly vivid in the firelight. "No, they didn't. But I did."

They looked at each other, hunter to hunter, Bobby's face lit up with dark satisfaction and a depth of respect and understanding that out of every living person on Earth, only Bobby Singer could have felt in that moment. "Well, good for you."

They sat in silence for a long while. Finally Reggie roused himself. "Sam and Dean don't know. That you know."

"Hell no." Bobby shook his head. "Not really the kind of thing you can just talk about over breakfast."

"They need to know someone's on their side."

Bobby bristled slightly. "Oh, they have no doubt about THAT."

Reggie sat back. "Trust me. When you're…different from other people, it's real important to have people that are close to you that know. Know the thing that makes you different. And accept you anyway. Those two? They need that more than anyone. It's going to be a hard life for them." Reggie sighed. "I could at least tell some people. But Sam and Dean…they can't tell anyone. You can't even imagine the weight that kind of secret brings."

Bobby thought about it, then sagged and nodded. "You're right."

Reggie's voice was slightly slurred. "He can't find out. You know that, right?"

"Who, John? What are you, crazy? Of course he can't find out." Bobby's agitation spilled out in the way he rubbed his beard. "I can't… good lord. He'd split the boys up. Make sure they never saw each other again." Bobby whistled. "Man, don't even make me think about it."

"There's something else we need to talk about. Something Spivey said. I know you caught it too."

Bobby nodded. "Said Sam was special. Not to be touched."

"What you don't know? That night Sam went to bed all kinds of messed up and woke up somehow feeling mostly all better? Dean had a dream that night. Real vivid. About the night his mom burned. The fire. But he said he wasn't a kid in the dream. He saw something in the corner with yellow eyes. And he smelled sulfur."

Bobby sat bolt upright. "Demon tortures a man for torturing Sam. Lets him live just so he can apologize. He says Sam Winchester isn't to be touched. And now you're telling me that the night Sam turned the corner, Dean had a vision about a demon."

"Yup."

"Balls." Bobby blew out a breath and reached for the bottle of whiskey. "We got problems."


	33. B Side

Sam roused.

They'd fallen asleep in each other's arms to the sound of the rain spattering against the window, the serpentine dance of a hundred candle flames bowing and rearing up, the scent of each other dissolving into the warm honeyed smell of beeswax and clean, wet earth.

Sam blinked, his broken arm aching underneath the weight of Dean. He murmured a wordless, gentle protest, and Dean stirred instantly. "Hurting you, Sammy?" Dean rolled off, keeping his hand pressed to Sam's stomach, not willing to let go completely. Sam pulled his arm free and settled onto his back

A roll of thunder shook the air, trembling through their bones.

Dean brushed Sam's hair away from his face. "Did I hurt you?" His eyes searched Sam's face. He wasn't asking about Sam's arm.

Sam's mouth parted in a smile. "No."

"You sure?"

"Dean. It didn't hurt."

Dean toyed with Sam's hair, looping a thick lock of it around his index finger. "Not at all?"

Sam's smile deepened. "Nope. It just… it was…"

Dean waited, letting Sam think.

"It was right. Like…you just fit." Sam's voice was soft. "Inside me."

Dean's neck muscles worked as he swallowed. "Yeah?" His eyes, stolen jade gleaming in the candle light, looked up into Sam's.

Sam let the moment hang in the air.

"You want me to."

Improbably, Dean's face colored. "Duh. 'Course I want you to. I said so, didn't I?"

The rain intensified, streaming in rivulets down the window. Sam rubbed his thumb along Dean's jaw.

"You want me to now."

Dean shivered. "No. I mean, yeah, but… this was your first time. Want it to be special. To be about you."

Sam's face tensed. "It wouldn't be your first time? You've… you've already done that?"

"Christ no." Dean jerked his head. "No." He blew out a nervous breath. "Saving myself for you, Sammy."

Dean flashed his trademark cocky grin, but Sam put his fingers over his mouth. "No. Don't you do that. Not now."

"Do what?"

"Do that thing. Where you lay on the charm. You do it when you get nervous."

Dean blinked, stunned that Sam had seen through that.

"Don't be nervous. It's just me."

Dean laughed. Nervously. "In case you hadn't noticed, you're packing some serious heat there, Sam."

Sam sat up, lowering Dean onto his back. "I won't hurt you, Dean."

Dean just looked up at Sam, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face.

"It won't hurt. I'll go slow." Sam leaned over and brushed his mouth against Dean's. "I want to. I really want to." Sam's voice softened, became hesitant. "If you want me to."

Dean trembled. "You have no idea."

Sam's face broke into a smile of relief. "That tape got a side B?"

Sam pressed eject and flipped the tape.

A simple acoustic guitar.

_Childhood living_

_Is easy to do_

_The things that you wanted_

_I bought them for you_

Sam lowered himself over Dean, took Dean's mouth in his.

_You know I can't let you slide through my hands_

_Wild horses, couldn't drag me away _

_Wild wild horses couldn't drag me away_

Dean gasped at the feel of Sam's hands roaming over his body, pressing with a new kind of urgency, Sam's tongue, warm and insistent, slipping between his teeth, urging him wordlessly to open to him, let him in.

_No sweeping exits or off stage lines _

_Could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind_

Sam's hand, stroking his flank, sliding between his legs.

_Wild horses, couldn't drag me away _

Sam's fingers, slick and shaking, circling.

Dean's thighs parting. Letting him in.

_Wild horses, couldn't drag me away _

_Wild wild horses we'll ride them someday_

A fingertip, pressing gently. So gently. Dean arching his back. Whispering, "Sammy."

Silence. Only the sound of the rain as Sam's finger enters Dean. So gentle. So careful.

Piano. Rolling drums. A rolling piano trill, dropping into an instantly recognizable rising and falling melody.

_Only love can make it rain_

_The way the beach is kissed by the sea_

_Only love can make it rain_

_Like the sweat of lovers_

_Laying in the fields_

"Jesus. Did you know it was going to be raining when we…"

"Guess I got lucky."

Sam's lips, warm and strong, against the cut on his chest, licking the blood off.

Sam letting his index finger slide out, pressing the tips of two fingers against Dean's entrance.

"No."

A soft, shocked exhale punched out of Sam. He pulled his fingers away like they had burned Dean.

Dean stroked Sam's arm. "Shh. Not 'no' like that. I want you. Now."

Sam protested. "Dean… I need to get you ready."

"Trust me. I'm ready. Just… just go slow."

Sam shook his head, not willing to do anything to risk hurting his Dean.

"Sammy." Dean pulled Sam to him. "C'mon." His eyes fluttered to Sam's chest, then back up to meet his gaze. "Please." The stark vulnerability, the naked trust, was almost more than Sam could bear.

"Ok." Sam swallowed. "Ok. But you tell me if it hurts. You tell me."

"Promise."

Sam slicked his cock and coated his index and middle fingers until they were dripping, then slid them inside. "Want you," Dean hissed.

"Knew you'd be bossy about it." Sam's mouth twitched.

A simple guitar melody. Jim Morrison's voice, smooth and sultry

_I love you_

_Better than the rest_

_I love you_

_Better than the rest _

Sam, stubborn, worked his two fingers in, crooked them, pressing into that spot. Dean's eyes flashed open wider.

"You like it when I use my fingers." Sam's voice took on a hint of Dean's whiskey and cigarette rasp, that smoke-scarred rumble that sent Sam's nerves singing. It worked on Dean too. He pursed his lips, frustrated that Sam wasn't just giving him what he wanted, but rocked down on Sam's fingers. "Don't you? Just… just let me make sure you're ready."

Dean growled.

"Just let me."

Dean tried. He really did. But after another couple of minutes, writhing on Sam's fingers, he broke. "Sammy. You're killing me." He closed his eyes, pressed his face into Sam's chest. "I need you. Please."

And not even stubborn Sam Winchester could resist that plea.

Sam laid his hands on Dean's thighs and slowly moved them apart, slotting himself between them. He shifted his hips, bringing the head of his cock to Dean's entrance.

Dean exhaled audibly.

Sam pressed gently, pulled back. Pressed gently. Pulled back. Pressed gently—and just barely slipped inside.

Sam shook violently. Dean rubbed his hands on Sam's shoulders. "You ok, Sammy?"

"God. Oh god. Dean."

Sam looked down at Dean, his face… his face. No words.

Dean spread his legs wider, slid his hands down Sam's back until they came to rest at the base of his spine. He whispered, "More."

A warm bass line.

_Nights in white satin, never reaching the end_

_Beauty I'd always missed with these eyes before._

Sam moaning as Dean's head fell back, baring his throat to him.

_Cause I love you_

_Yes I love you_

_Oh I how I love you_

Dean urging him forward. Sam biting his lower lip until he tasted blood, feeling Dean start to open to him.

Dean kissed Sam, tongue swiping across his lower lip, groaning when he caught the taste of blood.

"Come on Sammy just…"

Sam always pulled his band-aids off slowly.

Dean always ripped his off in one fast motion.

He wrapped his arms around Sam's back and bucked his hips up hard, driving Sam's cock past the inner ring of muscle, the head all the way inside him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck…" Sam gasped.

Dean's breath caught in his throat. His eyes went wide.

"Dean, are you—"

Dean's eyelids fluttered. He exhaled a long, shuddering breath, and gripped Sam tight, not letting him pull away. Held him like that, panting short and sharp, breathing gradually easing, relaxing into the feel of having Sam inside him. "Sammy," he breathed. His head fell back. "God. Sam."

"Jesus. You ok?"

By way of answer, Dean pressed his hands to Sam's face and kissed him, spread his legs even wider.

Sam began to move inside Dean, slow and gentle. At the first feel of Sam pulling back and moving deeper inside him, Dean began to tremble all over. "Jesus."

Sam kissed Dean's neck, licking the sweat from the hollow at the base of his throat, moving a little deeper now, groaning helplessly at the feeling of Dean opening to him. Taking him.

"Sammy. More." Dean's hands clutched at Sam's shoulders.

Sam slid himself almost all the way out, the head of his cock stretching Dean's inner muscle, and slowly, so slowly, pushed back in.

Dean shook and groaned underneath him, skin slick with sweat, making the sweetest little cries Sam had ever heard.

Sam did it again.

And again.

Dean thrashed his head, grabbed Sam's ass with both hands, pushed and writhed and demanded more.

Sam rocked into him slowly, fighting not to come.

Dean's hands roamed up and down Sam's body, plucking at him helplessly. "Harder. Please. Sammy. I need it. Please."

Sam examined Dean's face.

He meant it.

And Sam always gave Dean what he needed.

Sam wrapped his arms around Dean good and tight, and fucked him the way he needed it, pulling back and driving in hard.

And Dean just lost it, writhing on Sam's cock, arching his back, spreading his legs wide, taking Sam as deep as Sam wanted to go, his hard cock flushed deep red, jerking with the force of Sam's thrusts, rubbing against Sam's tight belly. And instead of the flood of gorgeous dirty talk that Sam expected, Dean just made sounds. Whimpers, sweet needy moans, aching with need, gasps of surprise at the impossible force of the pleasure Sam was giving him.

Sam fucked his Dean deep and hard, and Dean bounced and groaned and writhed beneath him.

"Christ, Dean, you're gonna… gonna make me…"

Dean bit his lip and wrapped his legs around Sam's lower back and stared up into Sam's face like all he wanted for Christmas was to have Sam come inside him. And that was it, that was all Sam could stand, that tight heat clenching against him, and he gripped Dean's arms hard and pumped into him once, twice, and he was coming, Christ, coming inside Dean, his come spurting inside Dean, his fist wrapping around Dean's cock… and Dean gave a strangled groan and spasmed, cries punched out of him like the pleasure was unbearable, like it was shivering him into pieces, spilling hot and wet all over Sam's fingers, shooting gleaming white strings all over his belly and chest.

Sam shifted, and Dean trembled with an intense aftershock, sending another trickle of come onto his stomach.

So intense was Sam's orgasm that his limbs went weak, and he trembled with the effort of holding his weight off Dean. Dean let them roll onto their sides, murmuring with displeasure when Sam's cock slipped out of him.

Dean couldn't speak. All he could do was stroke Sam's face, eyes wide and helpless like someone had stolen his voice right when he had so much he desperately wanted to say.

"Me too, Dean."

Dean pulled Sam to him, kissed him like he was burning a wordless promise into Sam's very flesh.

Eventually Sam regained the use of his limbs, and Dean regained the power of speech. Sam pulled the comforter and flannel sheets back and nestled Dean inside. Then he rose and began putting out the candles.

"Mmm. Like the candles." Dean murmured a sleepy protest.

"We're about to pass out. I don't want to burn the house down."

Sam left one big candle burning on the table next to his side of the bed, went down the hall to the bathroom, and came back with a warm, wet washcloth. He gave it to Dean, who cleaned himself up, and pulled Sam into bed, settling the warm bedding around him.

"Was… was I…"

Dean snuggled into Sam's chest. "You were awesome. And I'm fine." Dean breathed in, exhaled. "It was perfect."

Sam's eyes lit up."Yeah?"

"Even better than I'd imagined."

Sam made a soft, happy sound.

"What?"

"You imagined it. Us. Like that."

"Oh yeah, baby boy." Dean's cocky grin was back, but this time, it was just the thing.

"So… that's not gonna be like a one-time thing then. Letting me…"

"Letting you fuck me in the ass?"

Sam shivered. The way Dean talked? Like catnip.

"Oh no. That's really not gonna be a one-time thing."

Sam went to blow out the last candle.

Dean stopped him."Want you to see my face when I say this."

Sam blinked.

"I love you." Dean's eyes were damp. "I don't say that like I should. Not like that. But… I do."

Sam breathed it in, the love in Dean's eyes, the declaration of love from Dean's lips, the immensity of what had happened between them in the past few hours.

"I love you too."

Dean watched Sam's face in the gentle glow of the lone candle, saw the light of Sam's love for him blazing there. "I'll never give you up, Sammy. Not in this world. Not in any other."

Sam's mouth quivered. "Me neither."

And when Sam blew out the candle, neither of them noticed the flash of light that ran down the twin blades of their knives, so close together on the end table they were touching.


	34. Salt and Burn Club

It was the morning after the strange and disturbing confrontation with Spivey that ended with Reggie's knife in his chest.

The men sat around the table eating toast and drinking coffee, while Vesi fried up ham and eggs. It was important to eat before they did the salt-and-burn of Spivey, because he was newly dead, not just desiccated bones, and the smell was going to be bad.

John looked haggard, with deep black circles under his eyes.

They ate in silence, shoveling the food into their mouths. Then they went to take care of Spivey.

Vesi had dug a deep pit, and he and Pritchard easily carried Spivey's body out and settled him inside. John strewed more salt over the body, and doused him with lighter fluid. He flicked his Zippo and was about to toss it in the pit when Reggie grabbed his hand. "Waste of a perfectly good Zippo." He held up a small, dry branch, and lit it off the Zippo, and tossed it in.

Spivey erupted in a rustling ball of flame.

They stood watch as Spivey burned, gouts of pungent smoke rising from the pit.

Bobby sniffed. "Not so bad when they're fresh."

"True." Reggie's moustache twitched.

"When they've decomposed some… that's pretty rank. Like burning rotten oysters and vomit."

"This really ain't bad. Smells kind of like… what… burnt pork roast?"" Bobby glanced at Pritchard, whose face was turning pale.

"Sweeter, though." Reggie added.

"Like when the spit broke and my pineapple pig fell into the fire," Vesi added.

Pritchard made a quiet "urp."

John repressed a smile. "To be honest? It smells like steak. Like a really good grilled t-bone."

Pritchard broke with a miserable groan, bending over and heaving up the contents of his breakfast into the dirt between his feet.

The other men roared with laughter. Bobby clapped him on the back. "Welcome to the Salt and Burn Club, Pritch."

After Spivey had burned himself out, Vesi left him to cool before sprinkling the remains with limestone and burying them.

They went inside.

"Never too early." Vesi cracked open a fresh bottle of whiskey and brought out four shot glasses. "I'll drive us to Joseph's house." He poured a shot for the other men, and got himself another cup of coffee.

John tossed back the shot, drawing his lips back over his teeth in a snarl at the burn, and then went to use the phone. "Gotta call the boys."

John quickly made sure that Sam and Dean were ok, and that nothing suspicious had happened during the night. "We've got a source here that looks promising, so we're going to stay one more day, and head home tomorrow."

When he got off the phone, Bobby motioned to him to join him and Reggie in the living room.

"There's something you need to know." Bobby poured John another shot.

Reggie told John about Dean's dream the night the doctor said Sam was developing pneumonia. He told him about how Dean said he smelled sulphur, how he saw yellow eyes in the corner of the room, how he was 20 in the dream, not a six-year-old boy like the night Mary died. He reminded him how Sam was remarkably so much better the next morning.

John sat motionless for a long time. Then he sighed, blowing out a huge breath that seemed to be holding his spine straight, and slumped over, head in his hands.

He finally spoke. "The demon. He was there that night. In your house. With us."

Bobby's mouth tightened. "Maybe."

"How could it have gotten in? Your place is better warded than any place on earth."

"I don't know."

John couldn't quite bring himself to say it. "And you think it… it had something to do with Sam getting better."

Reggie spoke. "Yes. I do."

John stared, horrified. "A demon. The demon that killed my wife. That demon… healed my son?"

"You heard what Spivey said. 'Sam Winchester is special. He is not to be touched.'"

"You can't trust a word that man says." John turned his head away stubbornly.

"Spivey was dead. This demon brought him back to life. Just to punish him for what he did to Sam. Christ, John, it made Spivey apologize to you for hurting Sam."

"That's what he wants us to believe," John practically hissed. "Demons lie. They twist things and manipulate people. You can't trust anything they want you to believe. And you damn well can't trust Earle Spivey."

"You're right. Can't trust a demon. Or a human that's sold his soul to one. But there's something to it. And you know that."

John looked like a man pushed to the very brink of what he could stand. "Bobby…what the hell is going on?"

They piled into Vesi's van and went to Joseph's house, a renovated cabin on the outskirts of town.

Joseph was a slender man in his late thirties, with a pronounced nose and naturally red, thick hair that fell to his shoulders. He was dressed in tailored slacks, a subtle vintage paisley shirt buttoned to the neck, and wore a large silver ankh with a black stone in the join of the loop and crosspiece.

He had already pulled several ornate books from his massive library which took up the bulk of the ground floor, complete with climate and humidity controls, and set them out on the reading table in the center of the room.

He opened one of them, a beautiful vellum-bound volume with gilt edges, and drew John's attention to a page. "Azazel's not just any demon. He's a ruling demon."

"Bobby said he was one of the Grigori?"

"Yes. They were supposed to keep watch on humankind, but they became corrupted by pleasures of the flesh. Some say it was because they were lonely, so far from Heaven. They married human women, had children."

"Children?" Vesi looked surprised.

"Oh yes. God gave them the ability to breed with humans. And it was that sin that made them Outcast. Which raises the question, why did God condemn them for doing something that he specifically gave them the ability to do?"

Joseph flipped open another book, a massive tome with raised bands on the spine and marbled boards. He began to read. "So here's what I found after you called, Bobby." He trailed his finger along the text until he found the passage he wanted. "I'll translate. And paraphrase. The children of the Grigori started running rampant, acting like they were better than humans, taking everything they owned, eating them like lambs, and God sent Metatron and one of the seraphim to ask the Grigori to do what was just, and leave humans alone. The Grigori refused by turning their argument against them. So God sent Metatron and Raphael to ask them to do what was intelligent and reasonable. Again, the Grigori turned that argument against them. So God sent Metatron and Gabriel, who asked them to show mercy to humanity and send their children somewhere else. And again, they refused."

Joseph took a drink of water and turned the page.

"The fourth time, Metatron came with the seraph Uriel. Uriel told them, you've met the angels of justice, reason and mercy, and you said no to their requests. So God will be just, reasonable and merciful to his children, humanity, and will slaughter yours. They will henceforth be called the Nephilim, and will be hunted.

"Know that you have spoken with the Angel of Justice, Thought, and Mercy. Now you speak to the Angel of Death." Bobby spoke as if in a trance, dragging the memory up from some wrinkled recess of his brain.

Joseph's eyes snapped to Bobby's face, a look of surprise on his face. "Yes. Exactly." He looked back down at the book. "And God sent the great flood to rid the earth of the Nephilim. As in the great Biblical flood."

John looked shaken. "Noah's Ark."

Joseph nodded. He jumped to his feet and began pulling down other books, until he had a large heap on the table. "We may be able to find out more about Azazel in some of these books." He pulled up enough chairs for everyone. "Get comfortable. This may take a while."

John and Vesi took the books in English. Bobby looked at the ones in Japanese and Aramaic. Joseph, of course, took the ones in Sumerian and Enochian.

Joseph eyed the baby-faced Pritchard carefully, and rose, selecting a newer volume from a shelf and sliding it across the table to him. Pritchard stared up at him, eyes going huge. "Really?" He looked at the other, older men, and waved the book in the air. It was a bound volume of the Bible Comic Books. "Are you all just gonna bust my balls? Forever?"

Reggie chewed his toothpick. "Probably."

Joseph took pity and gave Pritchard the Book of Enoch."Knock yourself out."

The men spent hours poring over the old books, taking breaks occasionally to get a drink of water or snack from the kitchen, washing and drying their hands thoroughly before Joseph would let them near the books again.

Pritchard was the first to get a hit. "I got something. Azazel is the angel that taught men how to make weapons."

Reggie looked up quickly at that.

"Says he also taught women how to make cosmetics," Pritchard continued.

"Seriously?" John stared across the table at him.

Pritchard grinned, and read out loud."And Azazel taught men to make swords, and knives, and shields, and breastplates, and made known to them the metals of the earth and the art of working them, and bracelets, and ornaments, and the use of antimony, and the beautifying of the eyelids, and all kinds of costly stones, and all colouring tinctures.' They were secrets from Heaven. And Azazel passed them on to humans."

Late morning passed into late afternoon.

Bobby found a mention of Azazel in a Sumerian text so old, the pages had to be handled with exquisite care so as not to make them crumble and crack. "This says that Azazel has the ability to enter the human mind and conjure up images."

John found one brief mention. "Azazel is known for creating acts of chaos and mischief, purely because he enjoys it." He sighed. "Great."

Late afternoon turned to evening.

Vesi found an account of a visitation by Azazel, in which he showed no reaction to holy water and was able to cross salt lines and "that the symbols of warding were powerless to stop him from gaining entrance."

"Crap." Bobby's face fell.

Reggie turned up the most disturbing bit of lore. "As an angelic being, Azazel had the power to resurrect the dead, and heal the injured. These abilities did not disappear when he was cast out and became demonic. And Azazel is particularly known for his ability to create and manipulate fire."

They decided to head back to Vesi's house and figure out what to do next based on what they had learned, while Joseph continued his research on Azazel.

Bobby spoke to Joseph quietly, with restrained urgency. Joseph listened intently, and laughed. He went to a special cabinet, unlocked it, and removed the _Daemonolatreiae Libri Tres_.

Bobby stroked the cover like it was a newborn baby.

Bobby whispered in Joseph's ear. Joseph laughed in earnest this time, and took the camera Bobby pulled from his pocket. Bobby held the book up next to his face and grinned as Joseph took a picture.

Bobby slid the camera back into his pocket. "Rufus is gonna shit bricks."

They let Bobby have some time alone with the book, and went to the kitchen for some tea. No one spoke. They just drank their tea in silence and stared into space, lost in thought. When they came back into Joseph's library, Bobby was furiously scribbling in his notebook.

Joseph said, "You should come back, spend a few days with it. And…you may copy it."

Bobby wiped his eyes and tried to look gruff and stoic.

The men packed up their notes and thanked their host. On the way out, Joseph stopped Vesi in the hallway. "I don't think I'm going to find that much more in books." He spoke softly so the others couldn't hear. "If you want to find out more, you're going to need…other sources, I'm afraid."

Vesi closed his eyes. "I was afraid of that."

Back at Vesi's house, John stepped into the office to call the boys.

"Hey, Dean." John kept his voice light. "How's it going?"

"Oh, you know. Pretty quiet. We're just hanging out."

"How is Sam doing?"

"Good. He's good. He's really a lot better."

John's eyelids fluttered shut. "Glad to hear it."

"When are you coming back?"

"Tomorrow morning. We should be there by mid-afternoon."

"Dad. Spivey…"

"He's dead, Dean. Really dead."

Dean said nothing for a long moment. "You're sure."

"I burned him myself. Nothing but ash and bones now."

"Good." Dean's voice was soft with relief.

"I'll fill you both in on everything when we get back."

"Ok."

"Oh, and Dean?" John tried to keep his tone conversational. "Everything been ok there? Nothing…unusual?"

"Dad. What's going on?" Dean missed nothing. His voice was suddenly tight with concern.

"Just tell me."

"Nope. Nothing unusual. At all. Why?"

"No weird dreams?"

"Reggie told you?"

"Yes. We… Dean. That may not have been just a dream."

Silence on the other end of the line.

"I'll tell you everything tomorrow. Just… Dean, just watch out for Sam."

"I always do. Dad, what aren't you—"

"There's too much to get into now. Just keep an extra close eye on your brother. Stay in the house. We'll be back tomorrow. "

As he was about to hang up the phone, Reggie was at John's side, motioning that he wanted to talk to Dean. John passed the phone over. "Hitting the head before we take off," he said.

"Hey, it's Reggie. Did you…" Reggie cleared his throat. "Did you do that thing I asked you?"

"The ritual with the knives? Yeah. We did."

Reggie blew out a breath of relief. "Good. Now I need you two to do something else for me. Keep them on you at all times. You got me? At all times. Either on you or under your pillow. If you're in the shower, make sure they're within arm's reach. Promise me."

"I promise. What's going on? Should I be scared?"

Reggie paused, thinking. "No."

Dean's exhale of relief was audible through the phone.

"No. Just keep Sam as close to you as you can, and keep those knives on you."

Back in Bobby's house, Sam came up behind Dean and wrapped his arms around him, nuzzling Dean's neck. "What did Dad say?"

Dean spun and pulled Sam to him, holding him tight, hand pressed to Sam's head.

"Dean. You're shaking."

Dean just held him tighter, staring over Sam's shoulder, looking around the room frantically.

Sam's fingers clutched at Dean convulsively. "What… Dean. You're scaring me."

Dean took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down. But he wouldn't let go of Sam.

"We're good. You're safe, Sammy." Dean held Sam close. "I'm here. You're safe."


	35. Show Me

Sam had never seen Dean like this. Holding Sam as tight as he could, muscles taut.

Dean was terrified.

"Hey. What's going on? What did Dad say?" Sam tried to keep his voice calm, to try to bring Dean down a notch.

"Said we had to be careful. He said…" Dean thought. He didn't want to say too much before everyone got back. He didn't want to lie to Sam either. "He said the demon might try to come here."

Sam stiffened in his grasp. "Why?"

"I don't know."

Sam pulled away and scrutinized Dean's face.

"Sam, I seriously don't know." Dean took Sam's hand and pulled him upstairs to their room. He took the knives up from the bedside table, turning them in his hands, and handed Sam's to him. "Put it on. Reggie says we have to have these on us at all times or within arm's reach. At all times. No exceptions."

Sam slipped the sheathed knife onto his belt. Dean did the same.

Sam sat on the bed, looking scared and miserable. "Dean." He said his brother's name like the feel of the word in his mouth was a comfort. "Why is this happening?"

"We'll figure it out. I promise." Dean sat on the bed, back to the wall, and pulled Sam against him between his knees, wrapping both arms around Sam's chest. Sam stared at the doodles on his cast. Finally, his hand moved to the knife and he pulled it out of its sheath. He held it in his hand, turning the blade, watching the light move along the symbols etched into it.

Dean held Sam. Keeping him close. Keeping him safe.

Ultimately the demands of a teenage boy's stomach won out over fear, at least temporarily. "I'm hungry."

Dean rubbed Sam's arms. "Ok. Let's make some sandwiches."

They went into the kitchen and Dean pulled out everything in the refrigerator that might be good in a sandwich: heaps of sliced turkey and ham, cooked bacon, cheese, pickles, onions, and so on.

Sam stared at it all. It was enough to feed a small army. "I want the other hunters in here with us." The tone of his voice made it clear it wasn't a question.

Dean knew this would force them to put on the "just brothers" act. And he knew how much Sam loved being able to just be with Dean without having to be hypervigilant about looking at Dean the wrong way, standing a little too close, doing something to give their secret away. Sam wanting to give up their private time like this meant that he was absolutely terrified. "Sure." Dean nodded. "Safer that way."

"You wanna get started on sandwiches for all of us? I'll go get them."

Dean shook his head. "I'm not letting you out of my sight for a second, Sammy. We go together."

The tone of his voice made it clear this was not a suggestion. He wasn't going to let Sam out of his sight under any circumstances.

That alone frightened Sam more than almost anything that had happened so far.

Sam and Dean went to the RVs, and explained to Zack, Bosie and Big Lou what little they knew about John and Reggie's warnings about the demon. Their faces showed the same series of expressions that Dean's had: shock, confusion, fear and resolve.

"We'd feel better if we knew you were in the house with us. Until they get back."

"I'd feel a lot better too." Zack smoothed back his long red hair into a ponytail.

They gathered their weapons and went back to the house with the boys. Inside, Sam and Dean laid out an assembly line to churn out enough sandwiches for everyone.

Bosie slipped in on Sam's right. "I want to help."

"Sure." Sam pushed the packages of sliced meat and cheeses down the counter, and busied himself slicing red onion into nearly transparent rounds and pickles into thin slices.

Dean's mouth tightened.

One thing common to nearly all hunters is few of them had strong food aversions, or if they did, they kept their mouths shut. You were lucky to get food at all, lucky to have survived another hunt, and any food was good food. So none of the people in the kitchen piped up with a request for some sandwiches without onion, or hold the mayo, or no pickles on mine. So the sandwich assembly line was simple. Dean slathered bread with mustard and mayonnaise, Sam laid down lettuce, onion, tomato and pickle, and Bosie put on the meat and cheese.

Bosie leaned across Sam to get to a package of salami he had neglected to slide her way, pressing her body against Sam's side. Sam glanced down at her with a little smile.

The muscles in Dean's jaw popped as he clenched his teeth. He knew they had to act like two normal brothers who were not in love with each other. And Bosie was a good cover. He knew Sam had to play along just a little, because it would have seemed weird and possibly suspect if he showed no interest in such a pretty girl. But it still stung.

Soon there was a stack of sandwiches on a giant platter. Bosie rummaged in the cupboards until she found a jar of powdered instant tea, and whipped up a pitcher with ice.

Dean was so not surprised when Bosie took the seat to Sam's right. Dean settled into the chair across from them.

Bosie took a sip of tea. "I'm glad you had us come in."

_I just bet you are_, Dean thought.

"Were you guys cold out there?"

"Not inside the RV. We've got propane space heaters. Pretty cozy, actually, when you're inside." Zack did not mention, of course, that they were mostly sitting outside keeping an eye out.

"It's actually really nice inside ours," Bosie chimed in. "I've got my own room, kinda. It's the space above the cab. I can show you later."

Dean's fingers tightened on his sandwich.

"Maybe." Sam looked across the table at Dean.

Dean kept his face placid. "Yeah, Sammy. Maybe she has some etchings to show you."

Big Lou snorted, mouth full of sandwich. Bosie looked confused. "I don't draw. But I do have this amazing ancient set of runes. Carved into bone."

Sam's face lit up. "Really? Anglo-Saxon?"

Bosie grinned. "Elder Futhark."

Sam dropped his sandwich onto his plate. "No freakin' way! How did you get them?"

Dean forced two sandwiches into his mouth, bite by bite, tasting none of it, while Sam and Bosie geeked out on runes, Tolkien and the I Ching.

The only thing keeping him in check was seeing how Sam's face was no longer creased with fear and worry.

After lunch, Zack insisted that Bosie do her homework. He homeschooled her, because they weren't able to stay in one place long enough. She stammered and protested, but he stood firm.

Bosie sat at the living room working on calculus. Zack and Big Lou were at the kitchen table, cleared of lunch, packing salt rounds. Sam and Dean were on the couch.

Dean threw his arm over the edge of the couch behind Sam. "Keep your geek ass right here, Sam. You're not fucking helping her with her homework."

Sam squirmed on the couch like an eager puppy.

"I know. It's calculus. Your favorite." Dean leaned in, bringing his mouth closer to Sam's ear. "But I'm tired of seeing her hanging all over you, Sam. You're mine." His voice was quiet but firm. "Got it? Mine."

Sam closed his eyes, letting Dean's voice sink into him. "Yeah."

Dean glanced at Bosie, struggling with a problem. "Poor kid. Already falling in love with you. At least she has good taste."

Sam smiled at that.

"I wonder what she'd think if she knew how much you love how I make you come, Sammy."

Sam choked, masking it with a cough.

"Are you ok?" Bosie looked up at Sam with concern.

"Yeah. Fine. Just… coming down with something, maybe."

Dean kept his body position casual. "Yeah. Coming down with a case of Christ I need your cock in my mouth right now."

Sam's eyes fluttered shut, and his mouth parted involuntarily.

"Bet you'd like that right now, wouldn't you, baby boy. Getting on your knees right here, unzipping my jeans, taking my cock out. Sliding the head over your lips. Feel how hard you get me." Dean let his voice drop a little lower. "And you do. You get me so fucking hard. Just thinking about you. Sucking me off. "

Sam shifted in place, legs parting.

"God, I want to do that to you right now. Feed you my cock. You're such a good little cocksucker, Sammy. Fucking gifted. And you love it, don't you."

Bosie kept working on her homework. Zack and Big Lou kept packing salt rounds. And Sam bit his lip and struggled to maintain composure with his dick straining against his jeans, unable to touch Dean.

"Yeah." Sam's voice was so soft only Dean could hear him.

Dean smirked, looking over at Bosie. He let his fingers stroke Sam's neck. Sam jumped and stared at Dean in horror.

"Too much, baby boy? Can't keep it together if I actually touch you?"

Sam's breath, coming faster, answered that question for him.

"Ok. I'll just talk then."

Sam dropped his head against the couch with a groan.

And Dean did. He talked to Sammy, quiet and low, and all kinds of sweet/filthy. "Christ, wanna feel your mouth on me, suck me so good, just wrap my hands in your hair and pull your mouth onto my dick… right here, right now. Moaning 'cause I taste so good, don't I, sweetheart. Make you put on a real good show for her. Let her know exactly who you belong to. What you need."

Sam dug his fingers into his thighs.

"Yeah, 'cause she doesn't have what you need, does she, Sammy." Dean chuckled, low and wicked. "And even if she did, it wouldn't be what you want, would it."

Sam glanced at Dean, those spots of color in his cheeks bright red. He shook his head no.

"That's right. You aren't a cockslut. Just a slut for MY cock. Isn't that right."

Sam made a soft little sound, just for Dean.

"Bet you'd love a taste. Right now." Dean dared to lean in closer, so close to touching Sam that he could feel Sam's body heat radiating off him. "Bet you'd almost do it too, if I told you to. You want it that bad."

Sam whipped his head around to stare at Dean, his eyes wide with a wordless plea. Pleading for him not to, or pleading for him to just fucking do it, neither of them was actually sure.

Dean clapped Sam on the shoulders hard. "Gotta drain the lizard," he said in a loud, cheerful voice.

Bosie wrinkled her face. "Ew."

Dean looked back over his shoulder at her. "Oops. Forgot there was a lady present. Um, I'm going to use the little general's room."

Sam pulled a pillow into his lap to hide his straining erection from Bosie.

Dean went around the corner toward the downstairs bathroom—and then stepped back into the hallway so that only Sam could see him.

He unzipped his jeans and pulled his cock out.

Sam's jaw dropped open.

Dean stroked the underside of his shaft with the pads of his fingers, in that way that made him crazy.

Sam turned on the couch so his back was partially turned to Bosie, so she could not see his face, stunned and helpless and so fucking turned on he couldn't hide it a second longer.

Dean bit his lip, staring at Sam, eyelashes fluttering closed for a second with the keenness of the pleasure of it, then opening wide, his green eyes gone dark emerald. He fisted his cock while Sammy watched, unable to do anything but watch.

Sam dug his fingers into the pillow on his lap, staring at Dean leaning against the wall, gorgeous, thick cock in his hand, working himself harder now, mouth open, tongue darting out to lick across his lips. Dean mouthed, "Sammy..." and threw his head back, eyes clenching shut as he came, came hard all over his fingers.

Sam sat bolt upright."Oh god."

"What?" Bosie looked up. Dean was out of her range of vision, but Sam still flinched.

Sam thought fast."Uh, spider."

Bosie shot Sam a disappointed look. "Really?"

Sam played it out."It crawled OVER me. So you know."

Dean tucked himself back in quickly and zipped up. He walked back into the living room. "What, is my baby brother scared of spiders? Figures." His eyes shone at Sam warmly.

He came around and stood in front of Sam, his back to Bosie. "Big bad hunter, scared of a daddy longlegs?" His voice was light, teasing and playful.

Dean held up his right hand, fingers gleaming with come.

Sam's breath stopped, eyes darting over Dean's shoulder to Bosie, just three feet away, nose back in her book.

Dean brought his wet fingers to Sam's mouth.

Sam shuddered and sucked on Dean's fingers, licking the come off them.

"Good boy," Dean whispered.

Sam lapped at Dean's hand, and when he'd gotten it all, he let his head fall back on the couch with a groan.

"You really don't sound good, Sam." Bosie started to get up, but Sam waved her back down.

"Yeah, I'm feeling really…"

"What you need, Sam, is bed. And plenty of it." Dean's mouth twitched.

Sam nodded. "You're right."

Dean called out to the men in the kitchen. "Hey guys, we're going to be in our room for a while. Help yourself to whatever you need."

Big Lou waved at Dean with two fingers. "Gotcha."

Bosie brushed her hair over her ear. "I could, like, bring you some tea later."

Dean shut that down immediately. "That's nice of you, but I think we should just let Sam stay in bed for a good long time. I think that's what he needs most right now."

Sam's face, bright with color, really did look feverish. "Dean's right. Thanks, though."

Bosie looked disappointed, but nodded her acquiescence. "Hope you feel better soon."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll feel a lot better as soon as I lay down." Sam did a beautiful deadpan expression, looking ever so sincere. It took a huge force of will for Dean to repress a burst of laughter.

They barely got into their bedroom before Sam was all over Dean. "Easy there, tiger," Dean whispered. "Gotta lock the door."

Dean snicked the deadbolt shut, and when he turned around, Sam had already stripped off his shirt and was kicking his shoes off.

Dean stared in admiration at his Sammy as he set the knife on the bed and pulled his jeans off.

"You liked that, huh?"

Sam took Dean's hand, brought it to his cock. It was so painfully engorged, Dean groaned in sympathy. "Poor baby boy."

Sam seized Dean's mouth in his, licked into his mouth, moaning. Dean stroked Sam's cock slowly with his right hand, running his left down Sam's back and onto the soft skin of his ass. Sam pushed his hips forward into Dean's fist, then backward against Dean's hand on his ass, making Dean's fingers slip between the cleft, rocked forward again and back.

"Love you like this, Sammy. When you need me this bad."

"Always. Always need you this bad, Dean." Sam wrapped his arms around Dean's neck, and fucked into Dean's fist shamelessly, arching his back as he pushed into Dean's hand, fingers circling Sam's rim.

Dean stopped what he was doing, earning a reproachful look from Sam, and quickly grabbed up the little bottle of lube he'd stashed in the bedside table's drawer. He poured a liberal amount into his left hand, flipped the bottle closed and tossing it on the floor, then smeared lube on the fingers of his right. "Come here, baby boy."

Sam stood in front of him like he was before, and gasped when Dean slid his fist down his cock and slipped the fingers of the other hand down the crack of his ass.

"You need this so fucking bad."

Sam moaned, nodding his assent.

"Need it from ME."

"Just you. God. Just you," Sam said in a whisper.

"Made me crazy, seeing you flirt with her like that." Dean slid his fingers up and down Sam's cock, so slowly, moving down lower and holding Sam's balls, heavy and warm, in his hand.

He tugged gently. Sam pressed his mouth against Dean's shoulder and gasped, open-mouthed.

"You're mine. You understand?"

"Yours. Only you." Sam pumped his hips, frantic for more sensation, but Dean held him, gave him only what he wanted to give him.

Dean circled the tips of two fingers along Sam's tight little rim, pressing gently but not enough to penetrate.

Sam gave a soft cry.

"You gonna be able to keep quiet, sweetheart? Or am I going to have to gag you?"

Sam shivered."I'll be quiet," he whispered.

Dean made tiny circles with his wet fingertips, fisted Sam's cock slowly.

"Jesus, Dean… please." Sam tried to fuck himself faster on Dean's fingers, but Dean wouldn't let him.

"This is what you get, Sammy. This is what happens when you flirt with someone right in front of my fucking nose." Dean pressed his two fingers a little harder. Sam just opened to him, his body unable to hide how desperately it wanted Dean. "You tortured me all afternoon and I couldn't do a damn thing about it. So I'm gonna torture you all night." Dean chuckled. "And you aren't going to be able to do a damn thing about it. Just take it."

Sam moaned, helpless and sweet.

"Now get on the bed."

Sam obeyed.

Dean pulled a chair up to the foot of the bed and tossed the little bottle of lube to Sam. "Now show me how bad you want it." He sat back in the chair, fully clothed, his gaze devouring the sight of Sam completely naked and hard for him.

Sam stared at Dean, his shyness warring with his exhibitionistic streak.

"Come on, baby boy. Show me."

Sam blushed so hard his entire face went red. But he drizzled his fingers with lube and spread his legs for Dean.

"Wider."

Sam stretched his thighs open wider.

"Put your hand on your cock."

Sam did what Dean told him, eyes fluttering closed.

"Uh-uh. Eyes open. Look at me."

Sam swallowed, and obeyed.

"Keep going."

Sam stroked his cock.

"Nice." Dean swallowed. "That's real nice, Sammy."

Sam moved his hand down lower, tugged on his balls, biting his lip to hold back a moan. Emboldened by what he saw on Dean's face, he brought his left hand up, ran the fingers over the head of his cock as he massaged his balls and perineum with his right.

"Jesus fucking Christ…" Dean moaned.

Sam started working his cock with his right hand, pinching his nipples with the other. "Is this good?" His voice was soft, unsure.

"Yeah. That's real good. So fucking good."

Sam switched to his left hand, pulled his right thigh back, stroking the underside of his leg, making these soft little moans that drove Dean crazy.

"Feels good, Sammy?"

"Mmmm…" Sam let his right hand wander lower, petting his hole.

"I like that. Keep doing that."

Sam stroked and petted himself, stretching his legs even wider open.

Dean could not repress a groan, and palmed his hardening cock.

Sam licked his lower lip, brought both legs back, presenting his tight pink rim for Dean's viewing pleasure, and stroked it with the fingers of both hands.

"Please… can I?"

Dean closed his eyes. "Gonna be the death of me." He opened them again."Can you what? Tell me what you want."

Sam's legs were splayed wide open, knees pulled back, entirely open to Dean's view, but he still blushed harder at having to say the words. "Can I put my fingers inside?"

"Fuck. Yes. Do it."

Sam breached himself with two fingers, just to the first knuckle.

Dean sucked in a deep, shuddering breath.

"Good boy." He gripped the arms of the chair. "Now… deeper."

Sam pushed his fingers in deeper. "God. Oh god. Dean."

"That feel good?"

"Yeah," Sam breathed.

"Come on, baby boy. Fuck yourself."

Sam worked his fingers all the way inside his ass, and fucked them in and out. He started fisting his cock with his other hand.

"Uh-uh. Don't want you coming yet. Just your ass. Just your fingers in your ass."

Sam dropped his left hand to the bed with a whimper.

"Come on. Fuck yourself on your fingers. Harder. Show me."

Sam stabbed his fingers inside of himself, spreading his ass wide open with his left hand, showing himself to Dean.

Dean let Sam writhe on his fingers for a good long time.

"You want my cock inside you?"

Sam shuddered. "Jesus Dean please, please, I want you so bad…"

"You sure? Sure I'm what you want? 'Cause I can go get her. If you'd rather." Dean's eyes glinted, and Sam suddenly remembered that jealousy was called the green-eyed monster.

"I don't want her. Don't want anyone. Just you. Dean. Please. Just you. Oh god, Dean, please. I need you."

With that, Dean was on his feet, stripping his clothes off as he came to Sam, flinging his shirt to the floor, kicking off shoes and jeans, barely retaining the presence of mind to put his knife on the end table before falling on Sam like a starving man.

"Say it." Dean licked and bit at Sam's neck.

"Oh god."

"Say it, baby boy, or I won't do it."

"Fuck me."

Dean suckled on Sam's ear, making him arch his back and gasp. "Fuck you…where?"

Sam buried his face in Dean's shoulder. He whispered, "Fuck my ass."

Dean bit down on Sam's earlobe. "Uh-uh. Look at me. Look at me and tell me what you need."

Sam swallowed, chest heaving once, twice, then tipped his head up, and looked Dean in the eyes. "Please. Fuck my ass."

Dean shuddered and took Sam's mouth in his, kissing him hard, nipping and sucking at his lower lip. "Good boy. So good for me." He lowered himself between Sam, lined himself up at Sam's entrance, and pushed gently.

Sam pushed up, opening to Dean, stretching wide open around his cock, taking him inside in a smooth, steady motion.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sam…" Dean's voice was wrecked. He buried himself to the hilt, grabbed onto Sam's sweat-slick shoulders, and tried desperately not to come on the first stroke.

Sam writhed, gripping Dean's back, and begged, the words loosed from his mouth in a steady stream. "Please, oh god, please, fuck me, Dean, fuck me, need you so bad, come on, please, I need you, need to come for you, please let me come for you…"

Dean had planned to fuck Sam slow and deep for a long, long time before he let him come, planned to make him sweat and sob and beg so pretty for a long, long time before he wrapped his fingers around his baby brother's cock and told him to come for him. He had planned so much.

But plans often go awry. And no man could resist Sammy's breathless, desperate pleas, so hot and tight around him.

Dean pulled back and fucked into Sam hard, making Sam jolt beneath him with each thrust. "Ok, baby boy, come for me, come on my cock…"

Sam's mouth opened, and Dean knew it, could see it all over Sam's face that this orgasm was going to be a fucking earthquake, knew that Sam was not going to be able to hold back a scream.

Quickly, Dean sealed his mouth over Sam's and swallowed the cries forced out of Sam as he wrapped his legs around Dean, hands scrabbling down his sweat-slick back, and broke apart beneath him, crying out over and over as the pleasure crested, kicked higher and then higher again, until Sam was actually screaming into Dean's mouth.

And that, that moment, with his baby brother, the love of his life, his Sammy screaming out his pleasure into Dean's open mouth, set off Dean's orgasm, blasting through him like water punching through a crack in a dam, sweeping away everything in its path: the lingering anger at what John and Bobby had done that led to Sam being hurt, the terror that a yellow-eyed demon had actually been in the room with them that night, the same yellow-eyed demon that had pinned their mother to the ceiling and burned her up, the trivial but stinging pain of watching Sam having to play normal and flirt with Bosie, all swept away.

Just Sam.

Only Sam.

They fell asleep, locked in each other's arms.

Dean did not dream. This time, it was Sam.

Sam awoke, gasping for breath, his knife clenched in his hand so hard his knuckles were white.

"Sammy?"

Dean went from dead sleep to wide awake in a second, reaching for his own knife with one hand, and Sam with the other.

Dean looked around the room, but saw nothing.

Sam struggled to breathe, to calm himself.

"Was something here?"

Sam shook his head no. He could not speak.

"Nightmare?"

Sam nodded furiously.

"Tell me." Dean's expression was serious.

Sam panted, holding up one hand in a gesture that meant, "Hang on." He struggled for breath, panic building.

Dean lay back, pulled Sam against him, letting his ribcage open completely. He put the palm of his right hand flat against Sam's solar plexus. "Plenty of air, Sammy. It's ok."

Sam drew a deep breath, and shuddered like it hurt.

"It's ok." Dean stroked Sam's chest with his fingertips. "Breathe with me." Dean breathed in, his chest rising beneath Sam's back. Sam inhaled along with Dean.

"Now out." Sam's breath punched out of him fast, and he was gasping again.

"Breathe with me. Come on."

Dean tried again. He drew a slow, deep breath. This time, Sam followed his pace better, letting his chest expand in tandem with Dean's, exhaling more slowly.

It took 21 breaths before Sam was breathing calmly and deeply, right along with Dean on the inhale and exhale.

"Thank you."

"I'd say any time but that scared the shit out of me, Sam."

"I'm sorry." Sam sat up.

"What did you dream?"

Sam shook his head. "It was… I was back in the warehouse. They were holding my head in the bucket." He closed his eyes. "Dean. It was like… I was drowning. I mean, not just that my head was in the water and I couldn't breathe. I was dying."

Dean's mouth twitched and his hands formed into fists.

"Spivey pulled me out, and waited until I'd almost caught my breath, and he did it again. And again. And the last time? When he pulled me out?"

Sam's face was pale.

"It wasn't Spivey any more. It was Dad."


	36. Sweet Little Lies

_This is part of a nearly 11,000 word update I wrote to post on Christmas Day as a thank you to everyone who is following this story. In this big update, I wrote up to and past the Thanksgiving and Aftermath chapters I wrote out of order and posted so they could be read on Thanksgiving. I have deleted those chapters, and that material is now included in this chapter. I expanded on the Thanksgiving scene a bit (think pie)._

In the morning, as they packed up to return to Bobby's house it didn't take long for the argument to start.

"You have to tell them." Bobby's face was turning red.

"In case you two had forgotten, they're MY sons and I don't have to tell them a damn thing." John stuffed a flannel shirt into his duffel. "And you weren't listening. I didn't say I wasn't going to tell them. I said I want to wait until after Thanksgiving."

"You don't think Sam needs to know right freakin' now that there may be a demon on his ass?"

John spun around to face Bobby. "I'd rather go to my grave without Sam EVER knowing that." John rubbed his jaw. "I mean, what's he going to do? What do you do with that?"

Bobby glared at him.

"Anyway, it's only going to scare the hell out of him. And it doesn't do any good. Until we know more, get some… some kind of handle on this. What it wants. What we can do to stop it." John turned his back. "Until then, we just tell them part of the truth, let them have a nice Thanksgiving, for once. Christ, just for once, Bobby." John shouldered his duffel. "You know how rough those boys have had it over the holidays." His eyes were bloodshot, pleading with Bobby for understanding.

Bobby dropped his gaze to the floor, and exhaled. "Ok."

"Reggie?"

Reggie, who had wisely stayed out of the entire exchange, nodded. "I'll back you. But what are we going to tell them when we get back?"

John thought for a moment. "We tell them as much of the truth as it's safe to. Tell them Spivey was alive. That the demon resurrected him. That… that it was to mess with me. That it knows I'm after it for what it did to Mary, and it wanted to send a message. To back off."

Bobby and Reggie pondered this. It was plausible enough—enough for a few days, at least.

The drive back was quiet. Nobody much wanted to speak.

At the sound of the car pulling up to the house, Sam and Dean appeared on the front porch.

John greeted them with long hugs. "You boys good?"

"Yessir." Sam beamed up at John, still reveling in the relative newness of John's approval and love focused on him, instead of their fractious relationship before this whole thing began.

It twisted inside Dean's gut. Knowing that soon Sam would have to learn the painful truth, and that he might never look at John with that kind of love again.

His eyes met his father's. A wealth of things unspoken passed between them.

"Let's go in. It's freezing out here." John thumped Sam on the back, and they all went inside.

Bobby whipped up some Singer Specials, and passed them out to everyone in the living room.

John explained the story as they had agreed upon. Sam started shaking visibly when John talked about Spivey, breathed an audible sigh of relief when he got to the part where Reggie put a knife in him and how they salted and burned him, and went pale to learn that it appeared the demon had apparently resurrected him, tortured him, and left him for John to find as a message to back off because he'd gotten too close.

John promised that he was going to lay low, and let Joseph and Vesi dig deeper, now that they knew what they were up against. In the meantime, Sam and Dean and John and everyone should be safe.

John was a master spinner of tales. He was so persuasive he could have sold crack to a nun and made her believe she was doing God's work.

Dean watched Reggie's face as John talked. Reggie could not meet Dean's gaze.

Dean swore under his breath.

Bobby said, "We found out more about him. This demon. His name is Azazel." Bobby told them what they had learned during their research at Joseph's.

This time, it was Dean who went pale. "Dad. That's… that thing is pretty far up the food chain."

Everybody fell silent. It was not good to have drawn the attention of such a powerful being.

"I know, son. But we're gonna be ok."

"How can you be sure?"

John's smile was warm, blinding, his confidence infectious. "Because we're Winchesters." He leaned forward and put his hand on Dean's shoulder. "That thing wants me to back off? I'm backing off. I'm not going to risk you two in some… some obsessive need for vengeance." John turned to Sam. "I took you boys for granted before. I always assumed you'd be there. You'd be ok. But I learned my lesson. I won't do anything to put you at risk. So I'm going to let this go for now. That thing is too powerful, and until we know a hell of a lot more, going after it is a suicide mission."

Sam was entirely convinced.

Dean didn't let his doubts show.

John went to take a shower, and Bobby headed into his office to call Rufus and gloat.

Dean put his hand on Reggie's shoulder, holding him back. "Anything I should know?"

Reggie's smile was reassuring. "Nope."

Still, something pulled at Dean. Something not quite right. But he let it go. It was nearly Thanksgiving, and for the first time in a long time, they were going to have the whole deal, in a real house, with Dad there, and sober, and other people. And an actual turkey that was not from Kentucky Fried Chicken.

And Dean was tired of the strife and drama and angst and pain. He had his Sammy back. He was with Sam in every sense of the word, finally. Sam had forgiven him for the harsh things he'd said before Sam was taken. Sam and John were finally getting along, not at each other's throats. Even if it was based on a lie, Dean was tired.

He'd take it. Just for a little while. Sam deserved to have a nice Thanksgiving, safe and warm and surrounded by family, such as it was. And he figured, maybe so did he.

"Keep your hands off the pie, Dean. We haven't even had dinner yet."

Dean eyed the apple-pecan pie cooling on the countertop.

"You baked that?"

"Yeah. I baked that. But that one's for everyone. So hands off."

"It just looks so freakin' good."

Sam looked at the crowd of hunters assembled in the living room with John and Bobby, all caught up in a board game, of all things, and took Dean's hand. "Come on," he whispered, tugging Dean upstairs to their room and locking the deadbolt behind them.

There, on the table next to Dean's side of the bed, was a small, individually sized apple pie. On the bed itself were two large folded towels.

Sam bit his lip, hazel eyes locked on Dean's green ones. "I was saving this for after. Think we have time right now?"

Dean groaned, staring at the apple pie. The towels. At Sam.

"I thought you could, you know… eat it off me." Sam stuck two fingers into the pie, coating them with sweet cinnamon-scented syrup, and brought them to Dean's mouth. Dean licked and sucked them without an ounce of shame, not caring how debauched he looked. Actually, he did care. And loved it. Loved seeing how Sam's eyes darkened, how his breath sped up, how his hand trembled.

"Sam. Marry me."

"Yes."

Dean had been joking. He thought.

Sam was joking too. He thought.

A second later, they realized neither one had been joking at all.

"I know we can't do it legal, Sam, but…"

"We can do a ritual."

Dean pulled Sam to him, claiming his mouth, smearing pie filling all over Sam's lips, kissing him hard, sweet and messy. Sam melted into him, kissing him for a long, long time.

Sam pulled away, just a bit. "Two things. First, I want a ring and a date."

Dean smiled. "Ok. What else?"

Sam pressed up against Dean. "Probably should wait until I'm 18, huh."

Dean smiled, unbuckling Sam's belt and tugging his jeans off. "If I have to." He reached down, pulled Sam's cock out. "Eat it off you, you said?"

Sam shivered. "Yeah. That was the plan."

Dean scooped up a handful of warm apple pie and smeared it over Sam's cock. "I like your plan." He sank to his knees and took Sammy into his mouth, sucking the spiced, syrupy juices off him. He gripped Sam's hips hard, moaning at the combination of his favorite thing to eat, and his favorite thing to have in his mouth.

Dean went absolutely crazy, licking the pie off Sam, sucking and hollowing out his cheeks, moaning like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted, and it was. It honestly was. Apple pie and Sam, mingling on his tongue. He lifted little pieces of apple and crust off with his tongue, chewed and swallowed them with little sounds so wanton they literally made Sam's knees shake, jacking himself off as he sucked Sam off.

It wasn't long before Sam was clutching Dean's head, spilling warm and salty into his mouth. The taste of it mingling with the sticky-sweet apple pie, made Dean swear, suck the head of Sam's cock hard, trying to pull as much come out of him as he possibly good. "Holy hell, Sam." He braced his forehead against Sam's stomach, shuddering as he came. "Holy hell."

The kitchen was a hive of activity. Bobby checked the temperature of the 28 lb turkey, stuffed with his grandfather's secret stuffing recipe, swathed with butter-soaked cheesecloth. Bosie pinched the ends off a giant pile of green beans. John poured a generous dose of Barbados rum into the huge crockpot filled with simmering apple cider with orange slices and cinnamon sticks.

Reggie stood over the biggest cast iron pan Sam and Dean had ever seen, whisking the browned mixture of flour and butter, adding turkey juices Bobby had poured into a fat separator an hour before.

Sam and Dean exchanged private glances over the large heap of potatoes on the kitchen table, peeling the leathery skins off in long strips. Under the table, Dean bumped Sam's knee with his leg.

Sam stared at the pile of potatoes, but his smile, achingly sweet, was all for Dean.

Two hours later, the potatoes, mashed not beaten ("Keep your damn mitts off it, John. Too important to screw up.") by Bobby were placed on the long dining room table, along with a dizzying array of side dishes brought by the motley crew of hunters that had made the pilgrimage to Bobby's house, in honor of the boys. Jeweled cranberry sauce, orange-and-pink fresh cranberry relish ground with whole oranges and walnuts, a heavily spiced chutney of some sort, maple syrup yams dusted with cayenne ("That's my own personal recipe," Reggie had said with a wink.), stuffed sweet potatoes with pecans and bacon, creamed pearl onions, marinated cucumber salad, roasted Brussels sprouts with bacon, thick Southern-style biscuits, Bobby's secret-recipe stuffing, corn pudding, a seemingly endless spread.

Bobby's turkey was set before him at one end of the table, and a massive glazed ham on the other end in front of John. The table bristled with bottles of various liquids: red wine, white wine, champagne, non-alcoholic cider, cranberry juice, and mugs of spiked apple cider. A fire blazed in the fireplace, and ruby tapers in candlesticks were placed along the cranberry-colored runner down the middle of the table.

John stood. "Thank you all for being here. I'm more grateful than I can say. It's not often that me and my boys get to have this kind of thing. And I know it's the same for all of you." He looked around the table at the assortment of people, people who had sacrificed so much to keep the world safer, given up having families of their own, normal lives, all to be hunters.

"So today means a lot. And it means a lot more, what with what my family has been through over the last month." John looked at Sam and Dean. "I'm thankful for all of you and the help you gave us. But most of all, I'm thankful for my two sons."

All eyes turned to them.

"I did the best I could to raise them without their mother. And I know—"John's voice cracked. "I know I messed it up. Let Mary and you boys down. But you turned out so well anyway. Probably because you had each other. And Dean… you really… I can't even thank you enough. For how you took care of Sammy. Better care than I did."

Dean swallowed hard, trying to retain some semblance of composure.

"I always knew they were exceptional boys, but they proved themselves to be exceptional men, and fine hunters." John's face shone with pride and love. "I love you both, and I'm so proud to call you my sons."

Sam and Dean both wiped their hands across their eyes.

Dean cleared his throat. "We love you too, Dad." He went on. "Um, I want to say thanks to all of you. For what you did for Sam." Under the table, he put his hand on Sam's knee. "Sam's…" Dean bit his lip, looking at Sam. "He's the best brother anyone could ever hope to have. And I'm damn lucky he's mine."

Sam beamed, squeezing Dean's hand under the table. The specific phrasing Dean had used was not lost on Sam.

And Sam was not the only one at the table that caught that.

Quickly, unnoticed by everyone else present, Bobby and Reggie exchanged a glance.

Sam spoke next. "I don't even know how to begin to thank all of you. You've done so much." He looked at every one in turn. "I can't ever pay you back. But I'll try." He took a moment. "First off, I'm thankful I'm still here."

No one said anything, but nodded.

"And I'm thankful I met Reggie. Who's awesome." Reggie grinned, chewing on his toothpick.

"And Bobby. And Dad." Sam searched for words. "I love you guys."

Sam turned his eyes to Dean. He didn't even have to say anything. But he did. "And Dean. All my life, I wanted to be as good as him. At something." An expression of pain flickered across Dean's face. "I'm serious. You're so good at everything. Shooting, fighting, running, hunting, driving, everything. And you were just the coolest thing ever."

A ripple of laughter issued from the people at the table.

"I just tried to live up to him. And I know you guys were all, wow, what you did when they took you was amazing. But I…" Sam's voice thickened, and he paused to let the emotion subside. "That wasn't really me. That was Dean. All I did was try to do what I thought Dean would do in that situation. Live up to his example."

Dean tried to remain cool, but he couldn't prevent the tear from rolling down his face.

"People can make you better or worse. And Dean makes me better. He's the best brother ever." Sam's eyes were wet. "And I'm glad he's mine."

Bobby raised his glass again. "We're glad you boys have each other."

Reggie raised his glass as well. "You two make a hell of a pair."

John raised his glass. "To Sam and Dean."

Everyone at the table raised a glass or mug. "To Sam and Dean."

Sam and Dean turned red under the weight of the attention, but sat up straight and let it wash over them. Under the table, Dean twined his fingers in Sam's.

Bobby stood. "Sam. We'd like you to carve the turkey."

Sam was stunned. Carving the turkey was what the man of the house did.

John nodded, his face lit up with pride. "Go ahead, son. You're a man now."

Sam stood, cheeks stained pink, and moved to the head of the table. He took the carving fork and knife Bobby handed him. He stood there for a moment, all eyes on him. Then deftly, as though he had practiced this a hundred times, he sliced off the leg and wing, flipped them onto the empty platter, and began carving perfect, even strips of white meat.

"Damn, son. I should have had you do this all along." Bobby shook his head.

Dean watched Sam elegantly carve the turkey, slicing medallions of dark meat off the thigh, separating the drumsticks, all techniques absorbed simply by watching others do it over the years. Because Sam was just that smart.

He watched Sam, the memory of their secret kisses earlier still tingling on his lips, the scent of Sam all over him. Sam at the head of the table, bathed in love and praise.

His Sammy.

Dean closed his eyes, folded his hands under the table, and from his lips issued a prayer of thanks.

The food was demolished, pies inhaled, and everyone retired to their RVs, bedrooms, spare rooms and couches.

Sam snicked the deadbolt shut and crawled onto the bed next to Dean.

Dean lay on his back, already wearing his baggiest flannel pajamas. He rested both hands on his engorged stomach.

"Gonna die."

Sam pulled up the hem of his long flannel pajama top and ran his hand over Dean's tummy, stuffed full to bursting. "So adorable."

"Cut it out, Sammy." Dean didn't try to swat Sam's hand away.

Sam rubbed Dean's swollen abdomen gently. "Someday you'll be old like Bobby with a belly just like this."

"And you'll leave me for an underwear model. I know."

Sam stared at Dean in feigned shock. "I would never!"

His voice dropped into a whisper. "Never." He kissed Dean's stomach. "I like your belly."

"Really?" Dean pushed up on his elbows to stare at Sam.

"Yeah. It's cute. Feels good." Sam kissed it again. "And it means…"

"What?"

"Means you got enough to eat." Sam rested his cheek lightly against Dean's belly, remembering all the times Dean gave him the lion's share of what little food was in the house, going hungry himself.

Dean remembered it too.

"I'll love you when you're old and fat."

Dean met Sam gaze, something vulnerable and unsure in his eyes.

"Promise?"

Sam pressed his mouth to Dean's belly once more. "Promise."


	37. In For a Penny

Dean didn't trust his father. Didn't trust that they were safe. That Sam was safe. Way too much was lingering in the air unsaid in that house. He didn't trust it. So true to his word, Dean didn't let Sam out of his sight. He even trailed him to the bathroom, much to Sam's loud protests.

"No way in hell."

Dean stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a look of dogged stubbornness on his face. "I'm not getting off on this. But I'm not leaving you anywhere alone."

Sam stared at Dean in growing disbelief. "You're really… you're gonna just…"

Dean exhaled. "Fine. I'll turn my back."

Sam stood over the toilet bowl.

The room was silent.

The room continued to be silent.

"Dude are you gonna—"

"I can't do it with you—"

They spoke at the same time.

'Seriously. I can't pee with you like, right there."

"Sam."

"I literally can't do it."

Dean shook his head. "Not going anywhere."

Sam suddenly looked up at Dean, eyes wide with horror. "You're not going to stand there when I have to…"

Silence.

"No. Just… fucking no, Dean, ok? If some demon comes and snatches me from the bathroom, then it's just my time to die and that's it."

Dean turned, protesting, as Sam shoved him out into the hallway and shut the door.

"I'm locking it."

"Hell you are."

"Dean!"

Bobby stuck his head around the corner. "What the hell are you boys on about?"

Sam's voice reverberated against the tile walls of the bathroom. "Dean wants to watch me pee!"

Bobby's face showed a starting series of emotions. Then he backed away. "There are some things I just don't need to know."

Dean sputtered, red-faced. "Bobby! I wasn't… it's not… I was just… Reggie said not to let him out of my sight!"

Inside the bathroom came the sound of Sam peeing…and chuckling.

The jovial post-Thanksgiving mood didn't last long. Something was in the air. Something unspoken. Bobby and Reggie were constantly exchanging looks with each other. John acted unnaturally cheerful but didn't actually talk much, and avoided the two men as much as possible. He spent a lot of time with Sam, just the two of them, going over lore, walking around Bobby's compound, playing chess. Sam unfurled under the warmth of his father's attention, face lit up like it was Christmas Day every time John sat down next to Sam on the couch and said, "Up for a game?" or ran Latin with him in a rapid-fire call and response.

The warmer things got with John and Sam, the colder things became with John and Bobby.

It took two weeks for it to finally come to a head.

Everyone ate breakfast on their own, as they had been for about a week. Sam made cheesy eggs and Dean made bacon.

Sam and Dean ate slowly, Dean snatching bacon from Sam's plate as Sam ate while engrossed in a book, Sam smacking his hand when he noticed. Afterward, they went out to the garage because Dean really wanted to show Sam how to take a carburetor apart and put it back together. But even with the space heater, it was too cold, so they came back inside within a few minutes and settled down on the huge couch in front of the fire. They slumped down so they couldn't be seen, Sam leaning on Dean in a way that to someone who wasn't looking hard would appear simply as two brothers who were very close.

The grownups were in Bobby's office with the door closed.

Soon the sound of raised voices became audible.

Sam and Dean listened. It was hard to make out at first, other than the occasional goddamn or son-of-a-bitch.

Then the voices got louder.

"Damn it, John, every day you don't tell them, you're putting them at risk. You have to tell them."

"Actually, I don't. I can protect them."

"From a demon on Sam's ass? How in the nine levels of hell are you going to do that?"

"And how exactly is telling them going to help in any appreciable fucking way, Bobby? How will knowing make Sam any safer? It won't. And I'm sick of talking about it. I changed my mind. I told you that. The answer is no."

The door to Bobby's office flew open, and John stalked out into the hallway, his face that precise shade of violent red that made Sam and Dean flinch in fear. Fear born of longstanding experience.

Bobby was close on John's heels, Reggie trailing behind. "You don't have the right to hold that information back from him. You have to—"

John turned on his heels and shoved his finger in Bobby's face.

"Don't you tell me what to do with my boys."

"All the time I spent raising them while you were just…gone… they're as much MY boys now as they are yours." Bobby's face was equally red, the veins in his neck pulsing visibly.

Reggie slipped into the narrow space between them."Cool your jets." His voice was measured and calm. "John. We talked about this. Talked it all out. Right?"

John just stared at Reggie, jaw working but no words coming out.

"Remember what they did. In that warehouse. What kind of men they are." John's gaze broke, unable to meet Reggie's eyes. "Are you telling me you don't think they can handle finding out?"

"Or maybe you've just gotten used to lying because it's easier."

Sam and Dean raised their heads over the back of the couch, shocked to hear Bobby speak to their dad with such vehemence.

"You're one to talk, Robert. You seem perfectly goddamn happy to keep your mouth shut about the other thing. What, are you scared you're going to lose your make-believe-son? Scared Sammy's not going to love you anymore when he finds out what you did?"

"What we did. You and me both. And when Sam finds out me and his daddy are responsible for what happened to him? Finds out what we did? You…" Bobby wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You actually think he's only going to hate me?"

"Dad?" Sam's voice made the air shiver.

All three men whipped their heads around to look at Sam and Dean sitting in the living room staring back at them with questioning, wary looks on their faces.

"Oh my god." All the color drained from John's face.

Bobby gave a bitter laugh. "Jig's up now."

Dean put his arm around Sam protectively, and pulled him closer.

Nobody spoke. Dean closed his eyes, fighting back the sick feeling in his stomach.

"Dad."

Suddenly tears were streaming down John's face. He came to Sam on the couch, dropped to his knees in front of him, and pulled Sam into a massive bear hug. He just held Sam, stroking his hair, for what felt like forever. "Sam. I love you. So much. More than I—" His voice cracked. "Forgive me."

"Dad. You're really scaring me." Sam tried to laugh, but the stricken face of Bobby and the deep sorrow etched into Reggie's features terrified him.

"Tell him. He has a right to know." Bobby sat down in the chair nearest the fire.

Reggie went for the whiskey. He handed the first tumbler to Sam.

Sam couldn't speak, only stared up at Reggie. "Drink it, son." Sam did so, wincing at the burn. Reggie put his hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezed it, and then retreated to stand next to Bobby.

John stood up, shaky on his feet, and crossed to the fireplace, bracing himself on the mantelpiece. "You remember that demon sympathizer me and Bobby captured and interrogated?"

Sam shook his head, his mouth in a tight line. He remembered. Remembered the squirming in his stomach when John said, "Those things aren't human. There's no Geneva Convention for them."

"It turns out that was Spivey's son."

The shaking in Sam's body started out small. Just the merest tremble that only Dean could feel. He gripped Sam tighter.

"Spivey found his…" John closed his eyes, unable to continue.

"Found his body." Bobby's voice was all grit and sadness.

Sam breathed in sharply.

"He had some kind of psychic ability. From the demon blood. When he touched him, he was able to… to see things. See what happened to him. See who had done it."

John turned to face Sam. "He wanted revenge against me. For what I did to his boy. So he came after mine."

Sam closed his eyes, and grabbed onto Dean's knee, trying to pull warmth and comfort from the feel of him. The tremors running through his body grew worse. Remembering the torture at Spivey's hands. Remembering the dream he'd had the night before about Spivey turning into John.

When Sam spoke, his voice was soft. "Please, mister, don't hurt me anymore."

John and Bobby flinched like Sam had thrown scalding water in their faces.

"That's what he said. Didn't he? The boy. When you tortured him for information. 'Please, mister, don't hurt me anymore.'"

John's mouth was frozen open.

Suddenly Sam was on his feet. Dean rose too, prepared to hold him back from lunging at John, to catch him if he crumbled, ready for anything.

Sam just stood, hands clenched at his sides, shaking. "I remember. It was weird. Spivey told me to say that. He grabbed me by the throat and told me to say that back to him, while he was torturing me."

Sam's huge eyes seemed bottomless, a terrible realization building. "He knew. Didn't he. He saw it when he touched his kid? In some kind of vision." Sam closed his eyes, swaying on his feet. Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder to steady him. "He was recreating what he saw. Doing to me what..."

John moved toward Sam. "Son, you have to understand—"

Sam's eyes flicked open, and the expression in them stopped John dead in his tracks. "Doing to me every single thing you did to his son."

John closed his eyes and bowed his head.

Sam's focus switched to Bobby, who withered under his gaze. "Didn't he."

Bobby couldn't speak.

Sam looked back at his father. "Didn't he."

John screwed up his courage and raised his eyes to meet his youngest son's. "Yes."

Sam stared at John, the man who had rocked him in his arms and sung him Doors songs off-key, who ruffled his hair and smelled like Old Spice and taught him how to shoot and who was his dad… and who had taken a young man (_NOT a person, Dean. Ain't you been listening? A demon sympathizer_) and beaten him until his ribs cracked and pulled out his fingernails and shocked him with a cattle prod and half-drowned him over and over… every bit of pain and fear he felt inflicted upon Sam, every scream of agony and silent prayer for release felt by Sam.

Sam shook his head, hair spilling into his eyes, and backed away from his father.

John reached out to him. "Sam. Please. We thought he was one of them. Not human anymore."

That caught Sam's attention.

"You thought."

John winced.

"Might as well tell him all of it. In for a penny, in for a pound." Bobby pushed his baseball cap back on his head.

Eyes shining with tears, Sam turned to Bobby. "Go on."

"After… when he was alive again, Spivey said…" Bobby's voice was choked. "He said his boy never drank the demon blood."

Sam closed his eyes.

Dean moved close, the sheath of his knife bumping into Sam's, body pressed up tight behind him, and wrapped his arms around Sam's chest, holding him together.

Sam grabbed onto Dean's arms.

"It's ok, Sam. I got you."

Sam started shaking, violent tremors that racked his body like a series of seizures. He made a terrible, low moan, the sound of a mortally wounded animal.

Dean held him tight. Sam clung to him, would have collapsed to the floor were it not for the strength of Dean's arms around him.

Dean repeated, "I got you."

Sam raised his head, hair tumbling in his eyes, and stared at his father with hate. "That makes you a murderer."

John grabbed hold of Sam's shoulders. "Son. Please. You have to let me—"

Sam recoiled, shoving John back hard. "Don't fucking touch me." John nearly fell, but Reggie was up in a heartbeat, catching him before he hit the ground.

Sam's head snapped to the side, targeting Bobby in his sights, fury moving into the chilling calm Sam exhibited under extreme pressure. "And you. Jesus, Bobby…you?"

Tears ran down Bobby's face. "You're breaking my heart."

Sam's mouth twisted. "Seems fair."

Sam pulled out of Dean's grasp, turned to look at him. "You aren't surprised."

Dean had been expecting this, kept the flare of fear in his gut hidden. Knew this revelation could easily drive Sam away from him.

He met Sam's gaze. "I knew."

Sam blinked a few times. "How long?"

"Since the day they took you. Spivey said on the tape he was gonna do you like they did his kid."

"And you didn't tell me."

Dean's mouth twitched. "Dad had to tell you." Sam understood without Dean having to explain that it wasn't about Dean keeping secrets. It was that the burden was on John to confess his sins, and if Dean had told Sam, that would have let John off the hook.

Sam nodded. "Ok." And he squeezed Dean's hand.

Dean stared at him like he'd been in front of a firing squad and gotten a last-second reprieve.

"You were right not to."

"There's something else you need to know, Sam," Reggie said.

"I can't. I just… I can't. Not right now." Sam pleaded at Reggie with his eyes. _I'll break. Please. I'll just break. _

"Tomorrow then."

Sam nodded. He refused to look at John or Bobby.

"Dean. Get me out of here."

Dean went to bring Sam upstairs, but Sam resisted.

"Out of this house."

Dean walked with Sam outside, half supporting him. "Freezing out here. Where do you want to go?"

Sam doubled over and threw up.

"Fuck." Dean glanced around the salvage yard. The garage. He still had the key.

He dragged Sam into the garage, flipped on the light, locked the door from the inside and fired up the space heater, pulling it close to the ratty grey sofa Bobby often passed out on after one too many PBRs.

"C'mere." He settled Sam down on the couch, and pulled a stained comforter over him. Sam sobbed in his arms, great wrenching sobs, crying so hard he pulled the muscles in his neck, so hard he doubled over clutching his aching stomach muscles and cried harder from the physical pain, crying himself to exhaustion and then crying still more. "Dean. Make it stop," he begged.

Dean made it stop the only way he knew how. He kissed the tears from Sam's lips, slipped his hands under Sam's sweatshirt, brushing his fingertips against Sam's bare skin.

Sam gentled under his touch, gasping in relief as the sharp agony he was feeling began slipping into the background. "Please." Sam pressed against Dean like his life depended on it.

Dean stroked Sam's flesh, lips warm on his neck, slipping his fingers inside Sam's jeans, only taking a moment to coax Sam to full hardness. "Lay back." Dean lowered Sam onto the couch, undid his jeans and pulled himself out, and settled over Sam. He nipped and sucked on Sam's lips, teased them with the tip of his tongue, kissed him slow and sweet and thoroughly, taking his time, rubbing his cock against Sam's all the while. "Love you, baby boy. Love you so much." He traced his fingertips over Sam's face, whispered words of love and praise, brought Sam to the edge, trembling and open-mouthed, and then plunged over the edge with him, chanting his name.

They lay together on the couch for a long time, until finally Sam stirred, and stared at an object on the workbench. "Help me get this cast off?"

"Absolutely." Dean took the handheld rotary tool and stuffed a shop towel down inside Sam's cast, and with the precision of a surgeon, scored the cast with the cutting wheel. He finished the job with a pair of scissors, and the cast came off neatly.

Sam scratched at the pale skin of his arm underneath, sighing with the pleasure of it. "God that feels good."

Dean sniffled. It was bitterly cold, and they were no longer right in front of the space heater.

Sam softened when he saw the redness on Dean's cheeks. "Let's go in."

Sam led Dean into the hallway. Bobby, John and Reggie were still in the living room. John's eyes were bloodshot, and not from drink. His face creased with a hopeful smile at the sight of Sam.

Sam led Dean through the living room without a word, without so much as looking at anyone, and up the stairs toward their room.

The sound of their door shutting reverberated through the house.

John dropped his head into his hands.

"He's gonna need time." Reggie put his hand on John's back. "A lot of time. But he'll come around."

Sam was often so cuddly in bed that Dean nicknamed him Barnacle. But he had never been this clingy. And Dean had never minded less.

They fell asleep almost instantly twined around each other like ivy, breathing as one.

Dean awoke at the crack of dawn to find Sam moving through the room, shoving objects into a large Army surplus duffel bag. He rubbed his eyes. "Sam?"

Sam stopped what he was doing. "You in or out?"

Without a moment's hesitation, Dean answered, "In."

Sam kicked an empty duffel toward Dean, a smile breaking over his face.

They bundled up with their warmest flannels, multiple layers and insulated jackets. They snuck out quietly, unnoticed by anyone, walking right past Reggie asleep on the couch. None of the hunters noticed them leave.

"Where're we headed, Sammy?"

Sam looked over his shoulder at the house. "Away."


	38. On the Run

_Author's note: My story, Cat's out of the Bag, was just plagiarized by Supercest right here on , who posted it word for word as their own story titled Naked Accidents. If you see anyone doing this with my stories, I'd really appreciate it if you let them know they've been caught plagiarizing, report them and let me know immediately. Thank you._

Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam as they neared the Impala. Sam shook his head no. "We can't." He whispered. "They'll hear."

Dean pursed his lips, nose wrinkling. Sam was right. Any car crunching down the gravel would rouse the hunters still keeping watch on Bobby's house just in case. Bobby and John had told them they didn't need to stick around anymore, but they refused to leave just yet.

No, the only way they had been able to get out of the house undetected is no one expected to keep guard against Sam and Dean sneaking out, on foot, in the bitter cold.

So Dean regretfully let Sam lead him past the Impala, looking back over his shoulder to take in one last lingering glance.

They walked quietly onto the road that passed in front of the salvage yard.

Dean sniffed, cheeks flushed pink in the freezing cold. "What's the plan, Sam?"

Sam laughed, a bitter, humorless sound. "The plan? The plan is running away from home."

"You don't take a shower without a plan."

Sam stopped dead. "I just… I don't have a plan, ok? I-" Sam blew out a breath, white mist pouring from his mouth. "I had to get out. I just need to be away from him. From them. Just for a little. So I can think."

Sam was getting more agitated. Dean threw his arm around Sam, pulling him into motion again, to keep the blood moving. "S'ok. We'll come up with something."

Overhead, a large black bird perched on the telephone wires squawked and rose into the air, beating its massive black wings.

"I thought we'd hitch a ride outta here. Anywhere. If we don't have any idea where we're going, they can try to figure out where we've gone, and they'll never get it right."

Dean nodded. For a total lack of a plan, that wasn't a half-bad plan.

"We can get to a truck stop, get someone's wallet. Find a car. And then… just drive somewhere. Find a motel. Hole up for a couple of weeks."

Dean wiped the back of his sleeve across his nose. "Sounds good."

Sam wrapped the scarf around his neck tighter. "Cars come along here all the time."

No cars were anywhere in sight, in either direction.

They walked further, faster. Eventually, they came upon an abandoned car on the side of the road, a newer model four-door. Dean's face lit up. He poked around under the hood until he discovered something that stole all the hope from his expression and he shut the hood again with a loud sound. "Well, that's not going anywhere."

They started walking again.

"This was a really bad idea, huh." Sam stole a glance at Dean, bravely trying to mask his discomfort in the cold.

"S'alright. Someone's bound to drive by any minute now."

Sam shook his head, the sight of Dean so cold blasting through his own desperate need to get far away from his father and Bobby. "I'm sorry. This was stupid. Let's just go back. They won't have even noticed we're gone. It's freezing. And there's no one out. We're never going to find a ride—"

They didn't hear the white sedan until it was nearly upon them, slowing and pulling onto the side of the road. An old lady that looked like one of those rosy-cheeked apple dolls rolled down her window and poked her head out. "What the heckfire are you two boys doing out in the weather like this? Get in!"

Dean guided Sam to take the passenger seat, and he got in the back with the duffels.

The woman turned the heat up higher. "Can you feel that in the back?"

Dean nodded, grateful for the warmth. Sam held his hands in front of the vent.

"I'm Laura." The woman smiled broadly.

Sam stuck out his hand. "I'm Scott, and this is Wyatt." Sam could feel Dean's eyes boring into the back of his skull.

"Nice to meet you. So, like I said, what the heck were you two doing out in the cold?"

Dean spoke up from the back. "We, uh, had some trouble with the guy who was giving us a ride." Dean played it up beautifully, stammering like he was deeply uncomfortable, but making eye contact with the woman like being truthful was just the most natural and moral thing in the world for him. "It was better to get out and walk and hope someone else came along than… well, ma'am. I'd rather not say."

Laura's pink mouth formed into a tight moue of disapproval. "It's a dangerous thing, hitchhiking. There are some bad people out there. You two were sure lucky I came along."

Sam nodded.

Laura pulled back out on the road. "So, I'm driving out to Wall. Where are you boys headed?"

Dean's face lit up. Wall, South Dakota was right on the edge of the Badlands. It was also the home of the famous and massive Wall Drug roadside attraction, with its fiberglass jackalope, the giant green dinosaur with eyes that lit up, a rock shop, everything a little boy could dream of. And it was huge, with tens of thousands of people visiting it every day. It would be easy to swipe someone's wallet, and maybe even to snag a car.

"Wall would be perfect."

It was about 300 miles to Wall. The boys settled in, letting the warmth from the car heater seep into their bones. The old woman was a retired math teacher, she said, going to visit her brother who was on his deathbed. She'd driven all night.

The boys let the soft sound of her voice lull them just a bit, but neither of them slept. Dean reached his right hand between the seat and the side of the car and held onto Sam's arm. Eventually the woman stopped talking and fell into an easy silence.

Reggie woke with a start.

Nothing in particular had woken him. No sound, no motion. Just…something was wrong.

The fire had gone out, and it was cold in the living room, but that wasn't it.

He put his hand on his knife reflexively. The house was quiet, with morning light spilling in through the windows.

He looked around the room, unable to place his growing sense of unease.

Then he noticed something. After the boys came back in without a word the night before and locked themselves in their bedroom, a grim-faced Bobby had helped a distraught and stumbling John to his room. Before Reggie passed out on the couch, there had been a nearly full bottle of top-shelf bourbon on the side table.

It wasn't there now.

The feeling of something being wrong was getting stronger.

Reggie stood up, and went upstairs. Bobby was snoring like a brigadier general. John's door was ajar, and he was asleep, face down, still fully dressed.

Reggie tapped lightly on Sam and Dean's door. "Hey y'all."

No response.

He tried the door, expecting the knob to turn but the door to remain closed, with the deadbolt engaged from the other side.

The door swung open.

John was startled into panicked wakefulness by Reggie's shout and fell out of bed.

Bobby came stomping down the hallway wearing an honest-to-god red flannel union suit, shotgun in his hands. "What is it? What is it?" He bellowed.

They found Reggie sitting on the empty bed, Sam's note clutched in his hand.

John took it from him and read it. His fingers opened and the paper fell out. Bobby caught it before it hit the ground and read it.

_Dad,_

_I had to go away for a little while. I need to figure some things out and I just can't be around you or Bobby right now. When you're done being mad, I think you'll understand why. Don't worry about me. I'll be ok. Dean's with me._

_We'll call you in a couple of days._

_PS Tell Reggie we took our knives with us._

John ran down the stairs and outside, with Bobby and Reggie not far behind. Bosie came out from the motor home and laughed audibly at the sight of Bobby in his red flannel onesie, but the laughter soon faded as she saw the expressions on their faces.

"Did you see them?" Bosie was baffled. Zach came out and stood next to her. Big Lou heard the commotion and came out as well.

"See who?" Zach asked.

"The boys. They're gone."

Bosie turned pale.

"It was quiet. I didn't see anything. You're sure they're gone? We'd have heard a car start up." Zach looked horrified.

Bobby scanned the salvage yard. His face fell. "That's because they didn't take any of the vehicles."

Reggie sucked air in through his teeth. "They just walked out? It was zero degrees last night."

John shook his head in an unceasing motion. "All my fault. This is all my fault."

"Come on, let's get inside."

John wouldn't stop shaking his head.

"John. Inside. Coffee. Then we saddle up and go look for them." Bobby

Big Lou had already sprung into motion, getting ready for the hunt.

Reggie closed his eyes. "We never had a chance to tell them what Spivey said." _Sam Winchester is not to be touched_.

A bit after 11 am, Dean sat upright and tapped Sam's shoulder. "Look!" It was the giant dinosaur on the side of the freeway. Not long after, Laura's white sedan pulled into the Wall Drug parking lot.

"Here you go. You boys stay safe." They piled out of the car and slung their duffels over their shoulder.

Dean grabbed Sam by the hand and pulled him forward. "Ok, first, breakfast. Then the T Rex. And then the Rock Shop?"

Sam couldn't help but smile at Dean's enthusiasm. On every road trip, every hunt, Dean practically begged to stop at the roadside attractions. He loved the Rock Shops with their glinting chunks of fool's gold, the drive-through trees, the mystery spots and fiberglass dinosaurs. And John never let them. "Next time, son." And there never was a next time.

So Sam was going to make sure Dean got all his roadside attraction hunger taken care of. He deserved it.

They ran for the Wall Drug Café, grinning like all the horrible events of the past month had never happened.

Nobody noticed the old woman with the face like an apple doll watching them run, eyes gone solid black, or see her slump over, a thick stream of black smoke pouring out of her mouth.


	39. Rockhound

John stuffed warm clothes into his military surplus duffel. Bobby was on the phone. "John's boys took off last night." Reggie sat slumped at the kitchen table, working on his third cup of coffee. He was already packed.

"Nothing like that. They… well, Sam just got a little stir-crazy and ran away from home. Looks like Dean just went along with it." Bobby re-adjusted his frayed ball cap. "Yeah. So we'd appreciate it if you'd get the word out, help us look for them."

Bosie sat alone in the living room, staring out the window at the cold landscape. Her eyes were red and swollen.

Bobby hung up the phone and dialed another number. "Hey, Aloysius. It's Bobby. Sam and Dean are missing."

John walked fast through the hallway into Bobby's office, boots thumping on the hardwood floor. He came into the kitchen holding his pistol case, and poured himself a large mug of black coffee.

"We'll find them."

John whipped his head around and fixed Reggie with a hard stare. "Damn straight."

"Those two can take care of themselves. You know that."

John's expression softened just a touch. "I know." He slumped against the counter. "But they're out there, all by themselves, because of me."

Reggie took a swallow of coffee. "Bobby was in on it too."

John shook his head. "It was me. He just did what I told him. I love Bobby, but you know as well as I do he's no leader."

"I don't dispute that. But a man is responsible for the things he does. He had a choice."

John's laugh was bitter. "Did he? I'm hard to say no to."

Reggie blew out a breath. "Look. No one's saying you don't have a lot to atone for. 'Cause you sure as hell do. What you did was flat-out wrong. There's a thin line sometimes between hunter and monster, and you crossed it."

John blinked in surprise at Reggie's words.

"You know I speak my mind. But blaming yourself isn't going to help your boys. All you can do is find them and make it right."

John ran his hand through his hair, thick strands shot through with grey, and nodded wearily.

"I will. I'll make it right."

Sam forked another triangle of pancakes into his mouth. Dean flagged down the waitress. "Ma'am? Could I get a side of bacon?" The woman, in her mid-forties with dyed red hair, raised an eyebrow. "To go with your bacon?" Dean had already inhaled the four strips of bacon that came with his scrambled eggs and homemade doughnuts. Dean just grinned, and the waitress scribbled on her pad and walked to the kitchen.

"Ok, so, after this, we have to go see the giant jackalope, and hear the T Rex roar, and promise me we'll check out the rock shop." Dean's eyes were bright, almost feverish.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Sam poured more strawberry syrup over his pancakes. The sight of Dean grinning like a fool, lit up like a little boy, made him blink rapidly like he had something in his eye.

40 miles away, a coil of black smoke worked its way inside a massive house the size of a small mansion, serpentined up the marble staircase, into an ornate master bedroom and hovered over the bed. A grey-haired, stocky white man in embroidered silk pajamas stared up at it, eyes torn away from the television. The smoke plunged down and forced its way into his mouth. The man writhed and struggled, and then went still. When his eyes flashed open again, they gleamed jet black.

He rose, lifted an original Matisse from the wall, and opened the safe behind him. He pulled out a thick stack of cash and several credit cards. Some of the cash, he stuffed into a snakeskin wallet, and the rest he put into a small leather bag with the credit cards. He reached into the safe again, pulled out a large plastic bag filled with cocaine and set that on top of the cash. Then he dressed quickly in an expensive shirt and slacks, threw the leather bag on the passenger seat of his Mercedes, and drove onto the highway, past a sign with a painting of a buffalo on it, saying "25 Minutes—Wall Drug."

After eight slices of bacon, three scrambled eggs, a mound of hash browns and two chocolate doughnuts, Dean finally declared himself full. Sam paid the bill in cash, as John had trained them to always keep fifty dollars in cash on hand in their duffel bags. Dean practically ran for the front door. "Come on, dude. Jackalope!"

Dean insisted they stop first and buy a disposable camera, then clambered up into the fiberglass jackalope's saddle and waved his arm in the air like he was on a rodeo bull. Sam took a picture. Then Dean made Sam climb up and snapped a photo of him. "Awesome. Come on. The T Rex is gonna roar in six minutes!"

They had just enough time to make it to the hallway with the dinosaur head in it. The lights began to flicker and the animatronic T Rex began to snarl and roar, its massive head turning, jaws opening to fully expose its long white teeth. Sam felt a laugh erupt from him, genuine and unexpected. Dean put his arm around his shoulders and Sam jumped. "Scared of a big plastic dinosaur, Sam?"

"It's not that." Sam glanced around the room.

Dean leaned closer and whispered, "No one knows we're brothers, Sammy. It's ok."

Sam stared at Dean like he'd said the most unexpected thing. And then he swallowed hard and pressed his mouth to Dean's in a quick but obvious kiss.

Dean blinked in surprise, and then smiled so wide it made his previous grins seem reserved.

"You two are cute together." A well-dressed man with grey hair leaned against the wall. "Hey, want me to take your picture in front of the T. Rex?" He nodded at the camera in Sam's hand.

"Sure." Sam and Dean moved closer to the dinosaur and dropping their duffels at their feet, they posed for the camera.

The man snapped a photo and handed the camera back to Sam. He smiled. His teeth were perfect, white and even. "Real cute together." He moved close enough that they could smell his cologne. "I could take more pictures of you two. I live near here. And you two…" He glanced at their duffel bags, their worn jeans and scuffed boots. "Well, you look like you could use a little money."

Dean stepped in front of Sam, put his hand on the man's chest and shoved him back. "Fuck off. Before I hurt you." Dean's expression made it clear he meant business and could deliver on his threat.

The man backed up, holding his hands out. "I wasn't going to touch. I just like to watch."

"If you don't back off, you can watch yourself bleed all over your shoes." Sam stepped out from behind Dean, hands clenched into fists. "It's not him you need to be afraid of. It's me."

Dean turned to stare at Sam. Sam's cheeks were red, hands clenched, an expression of pure rage on his face.

The man backed off a few more steps. "Ok. Forget I said anything." He walked down the hallway.

"I don't like that guy." Dean stared at the man as he walked, noticing the nice leather bag over his arm and the fat wallet in his back pocket.

Sam saw it too. "Me neither. He's a bad man."

Dean smirked.

They followed him to the Rockhound shop. Dean tracked him carefully. So carefully, Sam had a few moments where Dean wasn't watching him.

He grabbed up a trilobite fossil, a geode and a beautiful piece of fool's gold, and slid cash across the counter to the woman. She bagged the items quickly and handed Sam his change. He was able to get the bag into his duffel and walk away from the counter without Dean noticing.

He came up behind Dean. "Hey. I noticed along the side of the parking lot, there are some cars we could get to without being spotted. "

"Nice. Now we just need to take care of this douchebag."

The man was mesmerized by a display of stunning mined gemstones behind a locked case. He dropped his leather bag to the floor.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Well, ok then." He whispered to Sam. "Go when you're ready."

Sam moved up the aisle to the display of mounted jackalopes on the wall, and then stumbled, knocking one off the wall to the ground. The grey-haired man was startled by the commotion. Dean slipped up behind him seamlessly, lifting the wallet from his back pocket without him feeling a thing, picked up the leather bag, tucked it under his jacket and walked out the door.

Sam brushed off the mounted jackalope, undamaged and handed it to the concerned saleswoman. "Sorry, ma'am." He gave her his sweetest smile. It worked.

Sam left the rock shop and joined Dean around the corner, standing next to a grey Mazda sedan. He blocked Dean from view as he pulled the slim jim out of his bag and opened the door. He unlocked the passenger side door for Sam and bent over, fussing under the steering wheel. By the time he'd put the duffels in the back seat and settled into the passenger seat with the leather bag, Dean had hot-wired the car.

"If you ever go dark side, Dean, you'd make an awesome criminal." Sam gave Dean a look of pride. Dean grinned, and drove around the building toward the highway.

The grey-haired man stood outside the Rockhound shop and watched them pull out onto the road. He smiled, white teeth bright in the sunlight.

They didn't relax until they'd made it 20 miles down the road. Dean pulled into a grocery store parking lot at the back, grabbed a screwdriver from his duffel and quickly swapped plates with another car. Then back out onto the road.

Dean tossed Sam the wallet. "Let's see how we did."

Sam whistled appreciatively, pulling out a thick sheaf of fifties and twenties. "Nice." He counted it quickly. "Real nice."

"How much?"

"Two grand."

Dean did a double-take. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." Sam started to laugh.

"Check out the bag."

Sam fished the leather bag from the back seat and unzipped it.

"Pull over."

"What."

"There. That rest stop up ahead. Pull over." Sam zipped the bag closed.

Dean pulled into the empty rest stop. Sam tossed him the bag, and he unzipped it. "Fuck me." He pulled out the plastic bag of cocaine. "Holy shit." He pulled out the credit cards. Then one banded stack of twenty dollar bills. Then another. And another. "Sam. There's ten grand in here."

Sam chewed his lip. "Dude. That can keep us going for a real long time. Even without the credit cards."

Dean shot Sam a worried look. "But… we won't be gone a real long time, right? You said you just needed a little time to get your head straight."

Sam stared out the window. "Yeah. Just a little. But… Dean. Now we can stay gone longer. A lot longer. If we want to."

Dean frowned. "What about school?"

Sam threw his head back and laughed. "I'm already ahead a grade. Even with all the moving around we do. I can test out of high school if I have to. I was thinking about doing it anyway."

Dean shook his head. "Sam."

Sam put his hand on Dean's thigh. "Dean, I'm not going to throw away my future. So hold onto the lecture." His expression changed. "Besides, I'm not really thinking about school right now. There's kind of a lot of other stuff going on. In case you forgot."

Dean coughed, and nodded. "You're right." He coughed. "So, what do you want to do with that?"

Sam stared at the cocaine. "Get rid of it."

Dean cocked his head. "You're not curious?"

Sam snorted. "Fuck no, dude."

Dean beamed with pride. "That's my boy." He patted Sam's head. "Just say no."

They transferred the cash and credit cards to their bags, and carrying their duffels on their shoulders so as not to let them out of their sight, they went into the rest stop bathroom. Sam slit the bag open with his knife, dumped the contents into the toilet, and flushed.

Dean brought them around to the back of the rest stop and put the plastic bag, wallet and leather bag on the dirt. Sam rummaged in his pack, pulled out the bottle of lighter fluid, and lighting a twig with his Zippo first, set fire to the small heap. They stood watch as the leather burned up, taking all traces of their fingerprints with it.

"Motel?"

"Yeah."

Dean was suddenly on Sam, kissing him hard.

"What's that for?" Sam's cheeks were pink.

"Dude. You and me. Motel. Just us."

The smile that broke across Sam's face was many things, but sweet was not one of them.


	40. Pure at Heart

"Where do you want to go, Sammy?"

Sam thought about that for less than two seconds. "South."

"What's south of here?"

"Someplace warmer."

So Dean pulled out onto the highway and drove until he saw a sign that said something about Mount Rushmore/Crazy Horse that way, and took that exit, and when the sun began to set, they crossed into Cheyenne, Wyoming.

Dean pulled in at the Wyoming Motel, parking the stolen car in a secluded spot in the back of the parking lot, and got them a room. They brought in their gear. Sam locked the door, secured the secondary lock, and put down a salt line across the threshold of the door and windows.

Dean set the duffels on the bed-for-gear. "There's a diner up the street. You hungry?"

Sam looked exhausted. "Later." He turned the wall heater up as high as it would go.

Dean didn't seem to mind. He too was exhausted, and stumbled to the bed, falling onto it face first. "Long day," he mumbled into the comforter.

Sam climbed onto the bed and snuggled right up against him, tucking his long body against Dean. Dean sniffled, rolled onto his side and pulled Sam's left arm, pale from the cast, against his chest. "Nap. Napping is good."

"You ok?"

"Just tired." Dean wriggled to slot against Sam even more closely, making a quiet happy sound as Sam's body heat warmed him. Sam pulled the far side of the comforter over them, and they lay curled up together, breathing in perfect unison. Dean relaxed at the feel of Sam's warm breath on the back of his neck, smiling at the little murmurs Sam always made right before falling asleep.

Sam woke up with a start and sat bolt upright.

Dean was immediately awake, eyes scanning the room. "What is it?"

Sam shook his head. "Bad dream."

Dean rubbed his nose. "C'mere." He put his hand on Sam's arm. The muscles were rock-hard with tension. "Hey. Sammy."

And suddenly Sam was on top of him, hands all over him, kissing him hard and messy and desperate. He shoved Dean's shirt up, got his hands underneath, moaning at the feel of Dean's soft skin. He straddled Dean, tugging his flannel off, peeling his t-shirt off over his head, and tugged at Dean's clothing.

Dean stripped off his shirts as fast as he could, spurred on by the urgency bleeding off Sam.

"Off." Sam undid Dean's belt, had his jeans open like he was being timed for a test, yanked them off Dean but got tangled in the boots Dean still had on. "Fuck it." He pushed Dean's thighs apart anyway, his feet bound together by the jeans and sank his mouth done on Dean's cock.

Dean fell back with a strangled cry. Sam sucked Dean's cock like he was starving for it, making the most delicious moans, gripping Dean's hips hard. Dean stroked Sam's long hair, pushing it out of his eyes so Dean could see his face, see those lips sealed around his cock, those eyes gone chestnut brown in the dim light of early evening gazing up at him.

Sam managed to kick off his own boots and peel his jeans off without taking Dean out of his mouth. He straddled him, panting, and took Dean's mouth in his again, plunging his tongue into Dean's mouth, giving him no other choice but to let Sam in, let Sam suck on his tongue, moan into his mouth as he rubbed his cock against Dean's.

When Sam wrapped his huge hand around the both of them and jacked both their cocks at the same time, Dean cried out. Sam swallowed the cry, licked another out of his mouth, working them both hard. Dean threw his head back, letting Sammy do what he wanted, take what he needed.

Sam licked and bit at Dean's throat. "Jesus fuck, Sammy." Dean grabbed onto Sam's bare ass, rocking him, grinding on him. "You're gonna make me come."

And Sam growled, actually growled, teeth nipping at Dean's flesh.

Dean arched up into Sam, baring his throat for Sam, crying out as Sam's strong hand drew his orgasm out of him, insisted on it, demanded without words that Dean lose it for him, come hard and long and gasping for breath.

And Dean obeyed the silent command like a good soldier.

Sam was right behind him, spurred on by the helpless sounds he made, by the sight of Dean's come spattering on his chest and belly, hot and wet. "Ah, ah, fuck, Dean…" And Sam was shuddering, coming hard for Dean, biting his lip and throwing his head back, then collapsing and kissing him again. He kissed his jaw, his throat, moved down, lapped up the beads of come on his chest. When he moved lower and started licking up the pool of come on Dean's stomach, they both moaned.

"I love you so much." Sam rested his cheek on Dean's stomach. "So much."

Dean stroked Sam's hair. "Me too." Dean's stomach growled.

Sam laughed.

"Can't help it. I'm starving," Dean protested.

"Diner up the street, right?"

"Yeah."

"Let's go."

They walked down the street to the little diner, built out of an old railroad boxcar. "Lemme guess…bacon cheeseburger?" Sam scuffed his boot against Dean's under the table of the booth.

"Green chili."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Thought I'd change things up."

Sam perused the menu.

"What about you… salad with chicken breast?"

Sam rolled his eyes.

The waitress arrived to take their order. "I'd like the green chili—"

"Cup or bowl?"

"Bowl. And a side of biscuits. And a Pepsi."

"And for you?"

Sam put down the menu. "Chicken fried steak and chocolate milk."

Dean dropped his menu and stared at Sam.

"I can change it up too."

Dean smiled affectionately at his brother. "Good for you. Keep 'em guessing."

Sam stared out the window, seemingly at nothing.

Dean wiped his sleeve across his face. "You ok?"

Sam's gaze snapped back to Dean. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." His smile was a little too perfect.

The waitress came back with their beverages. Sam unsheathed the straw and stuck it inside the tall glass. He took little sips, enjoying it but making it last. Dean, on the other hand, had finished most of his Pepsi before his meal arrived.

The waitress set a giant steaming bowl of green chili in front of Dean and a side plate stacked with two fat biscuits. "Refill?"

"Yes ma'am."

She slid a huge oval plate in front of Sam, covered with a massive slab of breaded steak, a generous mound of mashed potatoes, and an unreasonably large quantity of gravy.

"Don't hurt yourself, Sammy."

"No joke." Sam eyed Dean's food. "That's not what I thought it would be."

"What?"

"Thought it would be regular chili, but…green." What was in the bowl were chunks of pork braised with Hatch green chiles.

Dean took a bite. "Mmphy mmph, mph!"

"In English?"

Dean chewed and swallowed. "I said, holy shit, Sam. This is awesome. You have to try this." Dean held out a spoonful, offering it to Sam like he was feeding a baby.

Sam let him. His eyes went wide.

"Awesome, right?"

Sam nodded.

Sam then took a bite of his chicken fried steak, sopping it in the black pepper gravy. He curled his arm protectively around his plate.

"Really?"

"Oh my god."

"Can't be better than mine."

Sam cut a piece, speared it on his fork, swirled it the lake of gravy and held it out to Dean.

Dean ate it. The sound he made sounded positively pornographic.

Sam watched the pleasure play across Dean's face. "Ok, we split them both."

Sam moved from his seat across from Dean and slid into the booth seat next to Dean, dragging his plate over in front of them both. They ate off each other's plates and their own, leaning against each other, dipping chunks of biscuit into Sam's pepper gravy and forkfuls of chicken-fried steak into Dean's green chili. But it was the combination of green chili on mashed potatoes that made them both groan.

"Can you make this? You're smart. You know how to cook. Can you learn how to make this?" Dean licked green chili drippings from his thumb.

"What, am I your wife?"

"Only if you marry me."

Sam's face colored. "Already said I would." He took a sip of chocolate milk. "But that doesn't mean I'll be your wife."

Dean put his hand on Sam's thigh under the table. "Oh, come on, Sammy. You'd make such a pretty wife."

Sam gave Dean the bitch face. "Shut up."

Dean leaned closer. "You'd love it. Wearing a pretty little dress for me."

"Stop it." Sam glared, but he shifted in his seat, spreading his thighs apart, and a shiver ran through Dean as he realized Sam was making room for his hardening cock.

Dean brought his mouth to Sam's ear, and whispered, "I'd come home from work, hike up your skirt, pull your pretty pink panties to the side, get my tongue right up inside your hole, lick you open nice and slow—"

"How's everything tasting?" The waitress stood before them.

Sam's face was bright red. Dean swiped his tongue over his lips. "Tastes great."

"Dessert?"

In unison, they both said, "Peanut butter pie."

Sam laughed. "Saw that on the menu and knew there was no way we were getting out of here without you trying that."

Somehow, despite being stuffed to the gills, they had enough room in their stomachs to split a wedge of peanut butter pie.

"Ok, you learn how to make that, and I'll be the wife." Dean groaned, rubbing his distended belly.

"Does that mean you'll wear pretty pink panties for me?"

Dean didn't flinch. "Actually, yeah."

Sam coughed and turned bright red, but not from embarrassment.

They walked slowly back to the motel room, as though afraid moving too fast would send everything they'd eaten right back up again.

"I am so full." Dean staggered inside.

"Me too."

Dean rummaged in the bottom of his duffel bag. "But not too full for a little of this." He pulled out the nice bottle of Bourbon he'd snagged from Bobby's on their way out.

"You took that?"

Dean nodded.

Sam took a breath. "Ok, but we're buying him a new bottle when…"

"When we go back?"

Sam remained silent.

"Paid for out of our stolen money?"

Sam sat down on the bed heavily. "It's so easy, isn't it. To cross that line. Is that what happened with Dad?"

Dean unwrapped the plastic tumblers on the table and poured two inches of bourbon into each one. "Totally different. Dad tortured someone for information and killed him when he couldn't get it. We robbed a pedophile drug dealer that wanted to take pictures of us fucking each other. And who knows what else."

Sam looked up at Dean as he handed him the whiskey. "It's not that different. Dad thought the ends justified the means. So did we."

Dean sat down next to Sam. "I know. Slippery slope. Bad guys always justify what they do. But we're not bad guys, Sam. We're never going to be. Taking that guy's wallet? I'm sorry, but I just don't see it as being so terrible. Ripping off someone like that is a lot better than running credit card fraud or all the other stuff Dad has us do to get by. And that bag? Christ. All that stuff in there and he just drops it on the ground and turns his back? It's almost as though he wanted us to take it."

Sam exhaled, and took a drink.

"I know it bothers you. You're, like, the best person I know." Sam looked up at him in surprise. "Seriously. There's something about you that's just…" Dean thought carefully. "That's pure. And that's why I made sure I was the one that did it. Stole his stuff. Hotwired the car." He put his hand on Sam's knee. "If there is such a thing as a moral stain, it's on me, not you."

Sam dropped his head onto Dean's shoulder. Dean held him and took a swig of whiskey.

Sam nestled closer. "Know what I want right now?"

"What?"

"I want to take a shower. With you. So I don't freak out. Then I want to put on my sweats and crawl into bed and…"

Dean stroked Sam's arm reassuringly. "Anything you want." Sam stared at the floor. "You can tell me. Anything at all."

Sam took another swallow of his drink. "I want to go to bed and snuggle with you." He flinched like he expected Dean to pull away or laugh or make fun of him. Instead, Dean tipped Sam's face up and kissed him, soft and slow. "I'd love that."

They brushed their teeth first. Their knives, they set on top of the counter in the bathroom. Always within reach. Then Dean brought Sam into the shower and stood behind him, arms wrapped around him, under the spray. He soaped Sam up, washed him from head to toe, fingers stroking him not sexually, but soothingly, reassuring him with every touch that Sam was safe, that Dean was keeping him safe. He was careful to keep Sam's face out of the spray of water. "See, Sammy, plenty of air. You're breathing just fine. Right?" Sam kept his eyes clenched tight when Dean rinsed his hair clean, but he did much better than all the times they'd showered together since the kidnapping. Dean kept his left hand on Sam as he soaped himself up. Sam helped. He washed and rinsed his hair quickly and got them out of the shower.

Sam breathed an obvious sigh of relief, and reached for a towel to dry himself.

"Let me."

Sam frowned. "I'm better now. I can dry myself."

Dean was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. "I liked it."

Sam cocked his head.

"Taking care of you. Drying you off. Carrying you to bed." The muscles in Dean's jaw worked. "I liked it."

Sam handed the towel to Dean, a sweet smile on his lips. "Me too."

He let Dean dry him off everywhere, laughing when Dean put the towel over his head and tousled his hair dry. He insisted on drying Dean off himself. They walked naked into the main room, their sweats, favorite well-worn t-shirts and warm socks already laid out on the bed.

Dean stepped between Sam and the bed. "Just tonight. Just one more time."

"Ok." Sam's voice was a mere breath.

Dean pushed Sam gently down so he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Kneeling, he undid a pair of socks and slipped one onto Sam's right foot, pulling it slowly up his calf until it was extended to its full length, smoothing his hands back down, running along his calf, the top of his foot and down to the tips of his toes. Then he did the same with the other sock, eyes locked on Sam's.

He slipped Sam's feet through the leg holes in his sweats, one at a time, drawing the sweats up to his knees, guiding him to his feet and slowly pulling the sweats up to Sam's waist, stroking his flanks when they were on all the way. His green eyes remained fixed on Sam's nearly the entire time.

Finally, he sat Sam back down and gestured for Sam to hold his arms up over his head. He slipped his hands through the arm holes of the t-shirt and pulled it down, stroking Sam's chest and back, settling the material into place. Eyes never leaving Sam's.

Without ceremony, he quickly pulled on his own sweats and t-shirt, yanking the socks over his feet. He set his knife on his end table, Sam's on his, and then drew back the bedclothes.

Sam crawled in and Dean nestled in next to him, pulling the blankets over them both. He turned off the lamp, and the room went dark.

Sam curled up against Dean, throwing his leg over him, snaking one hand under Dean's t-shirt so he could rest his palm on the warmth of Dean's belly.

Dean chuckled. "Easy. I'm full of pie."

Sam rubbed Dean's distended belly gently. "I like it."

That brought another chuckle out of Dean. "Good. Because when I'm old, I'm probably gonna have a big old gut."

"'N I'll still love you." Sam's voice was sleepy.

"I must have done something good in a past life."

"Mm?" Sam snuggled closer.

Dean let his fingers play over Sam's upper back in that way that made Sam sigh and squirm happily. "Because someone gave me you."

They stayed awake as long as they could, reveling in the warmth and closeness of each other. But eventually they drifted into a peaceful sleep.

Dean awoke to howls.

He was on his feet, knife in hand, without remembering standing up or grabbing it. He turned the light on and looked around the room for the demon or monster or tortured soul making those terrible sounds.

The howls were anguished, the quintessential sound of abject suffering.

They were coming from Sam.

He was hunched in the corner of the room, pure pain spilling out of his mouth. He took a breath, and Dean gasped with relief at the sudden absence of that horrific sound.

Sam's mouth worked, no sound coming out.

Dean ran to him, fell to his knees. "Sammy! Wake up."

Sam's mouth formed words. Whispered them into the dark. "Daddy. Please. No more." Dean's body went cold. "Daddy. Please don't hurt me anymore." Suddenly Sam threw his head back, cords of his neck standing out, and that howl was ripped from him again, like his skin was being flayed from his body.

Dean pulled Sam into his arms. "Wake up, come on, Sammy. Wake up for me." He stroked Sam's face, impossibly gently, refusing to shake him or touch him or even yell at him. Only gentleness. Only love. "I'm gonna take care of you, baby boy." His voice was choked. "Not gonna let anyone hurt you." Sam shuddered, head thrashing. Dean held him, hands moving deft and gentle, his voice warm and comforting. "Wake up, Sammy. You're right here with me. I've got you." Sam gasped and his eyes flashed open. "I've got you. You're ok."

Sam gripped Dean's arms, wrapped around him, like a life preserver thrown to a drowning man.

Dean rocked Sam, soothing him.

Sam choked out the word, "Nightmare."

Dean wiped the tears from Sam's face. "I figured."

"Dad. Torturing me."

Dean kept rocking Sam. "He'd never hurt you, Sammy." Sam shook and clung to Dean. "Remember how he used to wrap you in a blanket when you were sick and hold you in his lap until you fell asleep?"

Sam sniffled and nodded.

Dean thought. "And he'd make you mashed potatoes when your throat was sore because you said anything else hurt to eat?"

Sam was still trembling. "Yeah."

"And he'd bring you warm milk with vanilla and read to you."

Sam looked up. "Dean. That was you."

Dean pushed Sam's damp hair away from his forehead. "He did it first. You don't remember?"

Sam shook his head no.

"You remember that birthday where he made you a cake out of Hostess cupcakes he stuck together and iced over with Miracle Whip?"

Sam sniffed again, but this time with a laugh. "Yeah. My 7-Eleven birthday."

"Dude. You got that 12-pack of Pringles. I was so jealous."

"I gave you half of them."

"That's because you love me."

Sam let his head fall against Dean's chest. "Dean. It was so real. It was like… like it was really happening."

Dean pulled Sam to his feet. "Sounded like it."

Sam wiped his face. "I'm sorry. Must have scared the shit out of you."

Dean brought Sam back to bed and brought him a glass of cold water.

They sat on the edge of the bed in silence for a moment. "I know he wouldn't ever hurt me." Sam took another sip. "But I know what he's capable of." He shot a look at Dean. "You think you know. But you don't." A tremor ran through Sam. "You really don't."

"Shh…" Dean made room for Sam to get back in bed with him. "We can talk about it tomorrow. Get some rest. We both really need it." Dean gave Sam a kiss clumsy with sleepiness.

Sam scrutinized Dean's face. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his face was flushed. "You're exhausted."

Dean simply nodded.

Sam turned off the light and drew Dean into his arms. Dean went easily, not insisting that Sam be the little spoon. Within a minute, he was asleep.

Sam held Dean as close as he possibly could and stared, wide awake, into the dark.


	41. Blow The Man Down

_Author's note: Because I deleted the "chapter" titled Oops, explaining how I had to renumber this story, you guys may have trouble posting a review to this chapter. I'd love to hear from you anyway in a private message, if that happens to you!_

Dean awoke to light spilling in through the heavy white curtains. Sam sat at the little table, reading. Dean stretched. "What time is it?"

Sam put the book down. "11:10."

"You let me sleep in."

"We don't have to be anywhere or do anything. So yeah."

Dean sat up and took a better look at Sam. His face was drawn, with dark circles under his eyes.

"Sammy?" Without deliberate intention, Dean was on his feet and at Sam's side. "You ok?" He tipped Sam's face up, examining it for signs of pain or sickness.

Sam's smile was weary, but full of affection. "I'm fine. I just… I didn't sleep well."

Dean stroked Sam's hair. "You sure? Can I get you anything?"

Sam turned in his chair and pulled the blackout curtains shut. Then he leaned back in his chair, hand on Dean's flank, and gave him an appraising look all the way down his naked body and back up. The way the corners of his mouth curled up, the swipe of his tongue over his lower lip, was Dean's answer.

Dean was already erect, simply from just having woken up, but the way Sam looked at him made him spring completely to attention. Sam bent forward and took Dean into his mouth, looking up at him with those hazel eyes, blinking slowly at the taste of him, uttering a soft, satisfied moan.

"Christ. You really like that, huh."

Sam sucked on the head of Dean's cock lazily, and pulled his mouth off. "I could do this all day."

Dean groaned as Sam took him into his mouth again. "Hey Sam."

Sam looked up.

Dean's expression was full of mischief. "You could do that all day."

Sam grinned, and licked a long stripe along the underside of Dean's cock. "Ok."

Sam worked his mouth and tongue on Dean until his legs were shaking so hard Sam took pity and had him sit on the edge of the bed. Kneeling in front of him, Sam worshipped Dean's cock, stroking it with his fingertips, nursing on the head, moaning as though it felt every bit as good in his mouth as his mouth felt on Dean's cock.

He sealed his mouth around Dean and sucked as he lowered it, slowly, god, so slowly, as far down as he could take it, held him there, and then slowly pulled back, keeping his mouth nice and wet, keeping the suction tight. When he drew nearly all the way, he swirled his tongue around the head again and again, scraping the flat of it along the underside each time. Dean gasped and fell back onto the bed. "Christ. Sammy. Jesus fucking Christ."

Sam did it again. And again. And again. He tried out different ways of using his mouth and tongue, watching Dean's face, seeing what made Dean swear and shiver, learning what kinds of sounds Dean made when Sam turned his head sideways and slid his mouth and tongue up and down the underside of Dean's cock, when he sucked both testicles into his mouth and tongued them, fingertips stroking the hard length. When he moved his mouth lower and swiped his tongue over Dean's hole, Dean almost lost it right there.

Sam pushed Dean's thighs back, opening him up, and attacked Dean like a starving man. He moaned as much as Dean did, lapping at him, stretching him open wider with his thumbs, probing his tongue inside Dean, trying to jam as much of it inside him as physically possible until Dean was crying out with each thrust of his tongue like Sam was actually fucking him.

He reached for his cock, but Sam swatted his hand away. Dean's eyes went wide.

"Don't want you to come yet."

Dean's head fell back with a groan, and he let his thighs fall open, let Sam do what he wanted to him.

Sam worked Dean over like a pro, tongue-fucking him feverishly, then lapping at his hole slowly, lovingly, lavishing him with attention, then moving up again, taking one ball into his mouth, nursing on it, then the other, then licking Dean's cock like a lollipop slowly, then engulfing him with his mouth, taking him all the way down, Dean shuddering and tearing at the sheets and chanting, "Sam. Sammy. Sam." And when he was about to come, Sam would just stop. Stroke his stomach and thighs until Dean stopped swearing and settled down. And then he would start it all over again.

The third time Sam pulled his mouth off before Dean came, Dean uttered an honest-to-god whimper.

Sam chuckled, licking at the sensitive skin of Dean's inner thigh. "Hey. You said. I could do this all day."

"I meant you could blow me over and over all day. You know. With me actually coming each time."

Sam's eyes darkened. "That what you want?"

Dean sat up. "Yeah. That's what I fucking want. I want to come in your mouth, Sammy. Over and over. Want you to come in mine." Dean's voice was roughened by his desperate need to come. "I want us to fuck each other's mouths all day and all night until our jaws hurt."

Sam's eyes fluttered shut, glorying in the sound of Dean talking dirty to him. He sealed his mouth around Dean's cock and worked it with a vengeance.

"Yeah. There we go. That's my good baby boy." Sam moaned. "Can't get enough, can you? Love my dick in your mouth, don't you?" Sam nodded yes, careful not to scrape his teeth on Dean's sensitive flesh. "I wanna see how much of my come you can swallow today. That's what I fucking want, Sammy." Dean's eyes were a deep emerald green, locked onto Sam's hazel ones. "Gonna give me what I want?"

Sam held Dean's gaze, pulled off just long enough to gasp, "Always."

"So good for me. Christ. Such a good little cocksucker." Sam's whole body shuddered at Dean's words of praise. "Never get tired of hearing me talk, do you?"

"Never," Sam whispered.

"Come on, Sammy, swallow that cock. Show me how much you love it. Make me come for you."

And that set Sam off more than anything else he'd said. He looked up at Dean, eyes huge, and sucked Dean's cock in a wordless plea, begging with his eyes and his warm wet mouth for Dean to come, _please, come in my mouth, Dean, let me taste you, please, come for me. Come for me. Come for __me__._

And Dean always gave Sam what he wanted.

Dean came hard, spurting into Sam's open, willing mouth, stomach contracting with the force of it, entire body jolting like electricity was shooting through him, chanting Sam's name, eyes squeezed tight in the _jesus christ I'm going to fucking die_ part of the orgasm, eyes open and gazing at Sam with pure adoration as Sam milked every last drop of come out of him and licked it up, Dean shaking with each aftershock.

Sam climbed up alongside Dean as he lay back on the bed, and Dean pulled him down into a kiss, licking the taste of himself out of Sam's mouth. Sam groaned.

Dean looked up at him. "Your turn."

Dean gave every bit as good as he got, stripping Sam bare, lapping at Sam's cock like he had all the time in the world. Payback for the slow sweet torture Sam had just put him through. And Sam fucking loved it. He did everything Dean told him. Held his legs apart so Dean had easy access. Spread his ass open with his hands so Dean could lick him open with slow, wet swipes of his tongue. Begged nice and pretty for Dean to put his fingers inside him while he sucked his cock. So pretty that Dean made a mental note to tease Sam like this, until he was pliant and giddy and shameless, on practically a daily basis if he could. Sam held absolutely nothing back, not bound by shyness or shame or fear. He gave it all to Dean.

Dean worked two fingers in and out of Sam's ass, milking that special spot, only giving Sam little kitten licks along his cock, or blowing moist warm breath, making Sam squirm and beg and plead for more. "How long can you stand it, Sammy?"

"I can't. Dean. Come on. I can't take anymore. Please."

Dean's grin was practically evil. "Not done playing with you yet, Sammy."

Sam's head fell back.

Dean tortured Sam with pleasure for a long, long time. He was exquisitely good at it. He brought Sam to the brink of tears, pleading to be allowed to come, and held him, kissing him softly, praising him, telling him how much he loved him, until Sam settled down… and then he asked Sam to take a little more for him.

And Sam did.

Dean did it all over again, lapping at Sam's cock, sucking on it so slowly, enough to make it feel so good Sam shuddered but not enough to let him come, pulling off just in time, squeezing the base of Sam's cock, his fingers in Sam's ass the entire time because Sam loved that so much.

"Gonna do this all day, baby boy. Don't worry. I'll let you come." Dean looked up at Sam mischievously. "Eventually. But I'm gonna fuck you all day. All night. Until you pass out."

Sam's smile in response was blinding. And there was something surprising in his expression. A flash of gratitude and relief.

Dean brought Sam to the edge over and over until the only two words Sam could remember were "Dean" and "please." And then he took pity. "You did so good, Sammy. So good. Gonna reward you now." Sam practically sobbed. Dean stabbed his fingers inside Sam, fucking him nice and hard, and swallowed Sam to the base, rising all the way back up and working the head of his cock.

Sam thrust his hips into the air, legs around Dean's waist, his weight on his upper back, and fucked himself down on Dean's fingers, crying out, thrashing on the bed, sounds ripped out of the depths of him as Dean finally let him come.

Dean swallowed every bit of it, loving the taste of Sam, his come somehow sweet and clean, with a distinct but pleasant mineral tang. "Love how you taste, Sammy," he murmured, working his tongue into Sam's slit to tease out the last droplets, as Sammy writhed and cried out beneath him.

He brought Sam a glass of water, helped him sit up and drink. Dean coughed, and finished the rest of the glass. When Sam had regained his motor functions, he ran his hand up Dean's thigh. "Looks like your turn again."

Sam took Dean, gorgeously erect again, into his mouth and worshipped his cock until he got hard again too. Then he shifted position so his hips were near Dean's shoulders. Dean got the hint. He pulled Sam up and over, straddling his face, and pulled him down into a sixty-nine.

Sam went crazy, gripping Dean's thighs hard, sucking his cock feverishly, bucking his hips and fucking Dean's mouth, making the most delicious sounds Dean had ever heard Sam make. Dean hollowed his cheeks and sucked, letting his tongue go soft and flat, relaxing everything, taking Sam deep, deeper than before, until Sam was fucking his throat.

Sam cried out even louder, mouth still sealed on Dean's cock, over and over. Dean moved his hand up, slipped a finger into Sam's ass, and that was it. Sam was done for. He shuddered, his cry amping up into a scream, mouth still locked on Dean. The feel of Sam screaming with pleasure on his cock as he flooded Dean's mouth a second time sent Dean off, and they came nearly simultaneously, Dean just a few seconds behind.

They curled up in each other's arms, Dean stroking Sam's back. "I'll never get tired of this. Of you." Sam's grin was blissful…and weary. "Yeah?"

"Damn straight." Dean pulled Sam close. Sam's eyes fluttered closed with exhaustion, but he forced them open again. "Get some sleep. I got you." Sam's expression flashed into something that disappeared so quickly Dean didn't have a chance to name it. "Sam. I'm right here. I got you. We can go get something to eat after, but try to get a little sleep, ok?" Sam closed his eyes and nestled close to Dean. "Mmm."

"I got you. You're safe." Dean wrapped himself around Sam. Sam fought it for a few moments, but he couldn't hold sleep off for long. Soon, he was out.

Dean stayed awake as long as he could. Which wasn't very long, as spent as he was. He closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.

Once again, he awoke to howls.

Sam had recoiled to the head of the bed, palms out as if trying to ward something off. His mouth worked, lips forming words without sound. He sucked in a huge breath, like gathering fuel for the firestorm of the next scream to surge out of his mouth.

Dean put his hands on Sam's face and kissed him.

Sam's mouth quivered, and his eyes flashed open.

Dean kept kissing him, so soft, so gentle. He stroked Sam's face tenderly. Every motion slow, soothing, aching with love for Sam.

Sam pulled away, eyes searching Dean's face, the room, confused and scared.

"You're right here with me, Sammy. It's ok."

"Dean?" Sam blinked a few times, and blew out a huge, shuddering breath.

"I'm right here." Dean rubbed his thumb over Sam's jaw.

The force of Sam thudding into Dean's chest, wrapping his arms around him tight and desperate, nearly knocked Dean onto his back.

"'S'alright, Sammy. You're with me. No one's gonna hurt you. I promise."

Sam shook in his arms. "Keep talking."

Sam was so receptive to Dean's voice, in so many ways. And Dean had always been able to talk Sam down from a nightmare.

"You're ok. I'm right here with you. And nothing bad ever happens when you're with me, right?" Sam sniffed and nodded. "Ok then. So you're good. Just a bad dream. And you don't have to think about that stuff ever again, Sammy. I'm not going to let anything hurt you. Ok?" Sam nodded again, gentling under Dean's words and touch. Dean held him, stroking him soothingly, murmuring reassuring words until Sam stopped shaking and sniffling. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

Sam looked up at Dean. He looked so weary it broke Dean's heart.

Dean petted Sam's cheek. "You hungry?"

"Yeah."

Dean tipped Sam's face up and kissed him like it was the first time. The last time. The only time. The way he kissed Sam made time snap to a dead stop. All there was, all there had ever been or would ever be, was Sam and Dean.

After a moment impossible to measure, time got a foothold again and started moving. Dean sniffled, and reached for his underwear. "Come on. Let's get something to eat."

They dressed quickly, hooked their knives to their belts, making sure they were hidden underneath their long flannel shirts and jackets, and stumbled back to the railroad car diner. They both ordered breakfast burritos and coffee. Sam slammed the contents of his cup before the waitress had finished filling Dean's cup. She filled it again, eyes wide. She took their ticket back to the kitchen, and came back with a plastic insulated carafe of coffee and set it before Sam.

"Thank you." Sam was surprised at the unexpected gesture. "That was real thoughtful of you."

The waitress, a pretty blonde in her early twenties, beamed. "Look like you could use it."

Sam drank most of the coffee himself. Dean didn't notice at first, so intent on devouring his breakfast burrito, eyes closed in food bliss. "Everything is better as a burrito. Like, they should make burger burritos. Onion ring burritos." Dean opened his eyes wide, like he just had an epiphany. "Dude. Pie burritos."

"If we ever get a place with a kitchen, I'll figure out how to make you pie burritos." Sam's face lit up with fondness.

Sam drank cup after cup of coffee. Dean cocked an eyebrow at him but said nothing. When their plates were clean and the carafe was empty, Dean handed the waitress the bill with cash. "No change, sweetheart."

Sam gave Dean a look.

The waitress walked away, and Dean bumped his boot against Sam's. "Don't like me calling anyone else that?"

Sam's lips pursed slightly, and he gave a slight shake no.

Dean laughed.

"What?"

"Fucking adorable."

Sam's expression was a cacophonous mixture of annoyance and pleasure.

Dean leaned over the table. "Come on, sweetheart."

Sam looked down, but his cheeks flushed pink.

Dean coughed, and took a big drink of water.

"You ok?" Sam stood up, putting on his warm jacket.

"I'm fine. Just a little tickle in my throat." Suddenly, that wicked grin was back. "Hey… you got anything that could help me out with that?" Dean chewed on his lower lip unconsciously.

Sam blushed. "Again?"

Dean practically pulled Sam out the door. Once they were outside, out of earshot of anyone, he leaned into Sam. "Finally get you alone. All to myself. Just us, in a room? We can do whatever we want?" Dean put his arm around Sam's waist. "Right now, what I want is your cock in my mouth."

A car approached from the opposite direction, and slowed as it approached them. "Fucking faggots." The guy behind the wheel, a pale redhead with splotchy freckles, glared at them.

Sam and Dean flipped their jackets open and gripped the handles of their knives in a simultaneous motion that looked practiced.

The driver recoiled, sped up and drove away.

Sam's breath, white vapor in the cold air, plumed out as he stalked toward the motel room. "Shit like that pisses me off."

Dean made an effort to keep up. "Me too." But Sam was clearly furious. Dean remembered what he'd been told. Part of PTSD was being quick to anger. So he let Sam walk off the moment, and by the time they got back to the motel room, he was visibly calmer.

Once inside with the door shut, Sam moosecharged him. "You want something, Dean?" Sam pressed his hardening cock against Dean's thigh. Dean murmured, "Yeah," nuzzling Sam's neck.

"Say it." Sam rocked against Dean, tipping his head to the side to let Dean have full access to his neck.

Dean groaned. "Gonna be the death of me, Sammy."

"Say it," Sam insisted. "I like it. When you talk."

"Like my dirty mouth, huh?"

Sam shivered. "Love your dirty mouth."

Dean drew his lips lightly over the soft skin at the front of Sam's throat. "What I want, sweetheart, is to suck your cock." Little kisses, the tip of his tongue darting out. "For the third time today." Warm breath on Sam's skin. "Want to taste you. Want to make you come for me. Come in my mouth." Sam was already shivering. "And you know what I want to do then, baby boy?" Dean drew his hand up the inside of Sam's thigh and across the front, palming his cock. Sam bit his lip with a groan. "I want to kiss you. Feed all that come back to you. Make you lick my dirty mouth nice and clean."

"Jesus, Dean." A shiver ran through Sam.

"Christ, I love you. Love how you get off on this. On the things I want to do to you. With you."

"Do it."

Dean sank to his knees, pushed Sam up against the door, and pulled his jeans open. Sam hadn't bothered to put his underwear on, and the sight of Sam going commando made Dean swear.

He pulled his cock out and nuzzled his cheek against it.

"Dean."

Dean looked up.

"After… after you…"

"Make you come in my mouth and feed it to you?"

Sam's head smacked against the door. "Guh."

"After that?"

Sam's expression, avid, almost feral, made him look much older than he was. "I want you to fuck me."

Dean dug his teeth into his lower lip. "Done."

Dean didn't tease Sam this time. He just lapped and sucked and pulled Sam's orgasm out of him as fast as he could, moaning at the taste of Sam spilling into his mouth. He held it all, not swallowing, and brought him to the bed. Then he laid his baby brother out, brought his mouth down, opened it, letting Sam's come spill into his mouth. And Sam fucking lost it, licking the taste of himself out of Dean's mouth, moaning and lapping at the roof of Dean's mouth, the sides of his cheeks, his teeth, licking it all up.

And with their mouths locked, the salty tang of Sam on their lips, Dean slicked himself up and took Sam, fucked him good and proper, rocking into him nice and slow until Sam got hard for him again, then fucking him hard and rough the way Sam demanded, hands pushing on his ass, words of desire, of command, spilling from his mouth. He fucked him like he owned him. Sam purred and writhed and urged him on, fist working his own cock, stripping it, murmuring encouragement into Dean's mouth like Sam had never dared to do before, like all of Dean's dirty talk had seeped inside Sam, taken root and grown into something deliciously wanton, sweet/filthy, all the better for Sam's innocence. _Fuck me, yeah, come on, fuck your baby brother, love how you fuck me, I know you love it, love being inside me, making me yours, all yours, fucking me so good, making me lose it for you, come on, Dean, I'm not gonna fucking break, I can take it, Dean, fuck me HARD, I need it, harder, jesus, fucking DO it_…

Dean fucked Sam harder, driving inside him fierce and rough. But it wasn't enough. Suddenly, Dean was on his back and Sam was riding him, rising and falling on his cock, fucking himself rougher than Dean would have ever dared, impaling himself on Dean hard and fast, so hard it had to have hurt, HAD to have hurt, but Sam was writhing and groaning like he was finally getting exactly what he wanted, what he needed desperately, and when he came, spilling all over Dean's stomach and chest, his cry sounded very much like the sound he made in his nightmare.

Dean couldn't stop the orgasm Sam drove out of him, came nice and hard the way Sam wanted him to. Couldn't help it, seeing his Sammy so aggressive, so demanding. They collapsed on their sides, panting, flesh cooling. But as soon as they'd recovered their breath, Dean turned Sam's face towards his.

"Sammy."

Sam blinked, almost like he was coming back to himself.

"You know I'll do anything you want, right?"

Sam nodded.

"Whatever kink gets you going, I'll do it. No judgment. You know that. But… Sam. What's going on?"

Sam tilted his head like a confused dog.

"You… it's like… like you wanted me to hurt you."

Sam closed his eyes, unable to meet Dean's gaze.

"Talk to me."

Sam fell over onto his back, his hand on Dean's chest, never losing contact with him.

"I…" Sam took a deep breath, blew it out through his nose. "I'm… kind of fucked up right now."

Dean turned onto his side, facing Sam.

"Kind of a lot."

"It's ok." Dean put his hand on Sam's flank, let it rest there, solid and reassuring.

"I can't stop remembering." Sam looked at Dean, hazel eyes so haunted. So hurt. "I get flashes. All day. For no reason. Just… like I was right back there. But this time…"

"It's Dad." Dean filled in the silence.

"Yeah."

Dean closed his eyes, trying to shut down the flood of emotions.

"I don't want to. But I can't stop it. And when I sleep…" Sam's voice was thin, scraped across jagged rocks until barely any of it was left. "It's worse."

Sam started to shake. Dean pulled him close. "I don't know what to do." His chest heaved. "Don't know how to make it stop. But when I'm with you. When we're…" He sucked in a breath. "It goes away. For a while. And the… the rougher it is, the more my brain shuts down." Sam started to shake. "I'm sorry. I know… you don't want to hurt me. I just… Dean. I don't know what to do."

Dean just held him, stroked his hair. "It's ok. Sam. It's fine. If that's what you need, it's ok. Whatever you need." Dean put his fingers on Sam's chin and tipped his head up, made him look Dean in the eye. "Dude. If it helps you for me to fuck you hard, I'm all over that."

Sam laughed. Laughed for the first time in a while. The relief that coursed through Dean was dizzying.

"We'll figure something out. And in the meantime… I'll do whatever you need. Fuck you into the mattress. Cuddle you all night. Read you bedtime stories. Whatever."

Sam stared at Dean like he was something unexpected. "Really?"

Dean shook his head. "Don't you get it?"

Sam blinked at him, confused.

"I love you, you big jerk. I'll do anything for you."

Sam buried his face in Dean's chest. "It's… it's ok?"

"Yeah it's ok." Dean held Sam close.

They lay together, breathing in unison.

Sam finally stirred. "I haven't forgotten."

Dean brushed his lips over Sam's hair. "What?"

"We need to call Bobby. Tell him what's up."

It wasn't lost on Dean that Sam said Bobby, not Dad.

"Yeah we do."

Sam was silent for a long moment. "In the morning. Right before we head out."

"However you want to play it."

Sam thought about it. "Yeah. In the morning."

"Where do you want to go tomorrow?"

Sam sat up and ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back. "I've been thinking about that."

"Yeah?" Dean lay on his side, gazing up at his little brother. All the bruises were almost entirely gone now. The skin on Sam's broken arm was paler than the rest but looked normal. To look at him, you would never know the physical abuse he had taken. But the other scars…they hadn't faded so easily.

"I want to go to Texas."

Dean grinned. "Alright." Dean had always wanted to go to Texas. Sam too. Now, on the run from their family and their pockets full of cash, they finally had the chance.

Dean fell into an easy, relaxed sleep, snoring softly. Sam held him, watching him sleep. Then he sat up, picked up his book from the nightstand, and started to read.

He read all night. Dean slept, unaware.

Dean awoke with a yawn, and a series of coughs.

"You don't sound so good."

Dean rubbed his eyes. "I'm fine, Sammy." He blinked at his little brother."You get some sleep?"

Sam stretched. "Yeah."

Dean nodded.

Both of them knew Sam was lying.

"Shower?"

Sam perked up. "Yeah."

Dean let Sam pee in privacy, and then Sam let Dean do the same. It was one thing to live in each other's pockets, but some boundaries had to be maintained, and things like that were one of them.

Then Dean ran the shower and called Sam in. As had become their routine, Dean went in first, held his hand out to Sam, and gently invited, but did not force, him in. Once under the spray, Dean held Sam, talked to him soft and sweet, reassured him that he could breathe just fine. He soaped Sam up, as much a seduction as it was a cleansing, distracting him from the blind panic of being in water through his clever fingers and tongue, until Sam was achingly hard, rutting against Dean's leg, thinking only of the love and pleasure of being with Dean.

Dean didn't let Sam come until he had shampooed and rinsed his hair, and let Sam do the same for him. Then he slicked up his cock with conditioner, and his right hand, and slid between Sam's thighs from behind, working himself to climax while jacking Sam off until he came all over the white tiles of the shower wall.

He insisted on toweling Sam off. He'd come to love doing that for Sam, even though he was now perfectly capable of doing it himself.

Sam insisted on dressing himself now, however.

Dean eyed Sam as he dressed, reading the tension in the curve of his shoulders."You want to get breakfast first? Coffee?"

Sam dropped his head. "No. I can't eat right now." Dean knew. Sam's stomach was in knots. "After. I'll call… and then we can drive for a while, and stop somewhere."

"Do you want me to do it?"

Sam's head snapped up. He looked at Dean like he'd just offered him a lifeline. Then his shoulders sagged. "No. I have to. We're here because of me."

"Not because of you. Because of—"

"We left because I made us leave."

Dean couldn't dispute that.

"So I'll call."

Sam sat up straight, picked up the phone, and placed the call. He patted the side of the bed, indicating Dean should sit next to him, and held the receiver away from his ear slightly so Dean could hear.

"Eldrich and Jones Funeral Home."

"Bobby. It's me."

Silence.

"Sam?"

"Yeah."

"Christ on a stick. Boy, are you ok?"

Sam ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm fine. We're fine."

"Where are you?"

"You know I'm not going to tell you that."

Another moment of silence.

"You're not?"

"No."

"Guess that means you aren't coming home anytime soon."

Dean looked at Sam.

"No. We're not."

A heavy sigh. "Your dad is worried sick."

"He'll get over it." Sam tensed up. Dean put his arm over Sam's shoulders.

"Sam—"

"I didn't call to talk about John's feelings."

Dean blinked. That was the first time Sam had ever referred to Dad as John.

"I… I have a lot to figure out. Ok? And I can't be around him right now. Not until I get clear on a lot of stuff. But I wanted you to know we're ok. We're fine. And—"

Suddenly, a different voice was coming through the receiver. "Son?"

"John?" Sam's voice was hard.

The sound John made was soft, almost imperceptible. But the pain was unmistakable.

"Are you safe?"

"Of course I'm safe. I'm with Dean."

Dean couldn't help but beam with pride and love.

"Before… look, we have a lot to talk about, but I have to tell you something. Warn you."

Sam sat up. "Hiding something else from me? Why am I not surprised?"

John sighed. "That's fair. I earned that. But… Sam. I need you to listen. That demon? He… he has something planned for you. Specifically you."

Dean suddenly went cold all over.

"The reason Azazel brought Spivey back? It was to apologize to me. For hurting you. And to…" John's voice cracked. "To apologize to you for hurting you."

"What? Dad… what the hell are you talking about?"

"Spivey begged for my forgiveness, and yours. He said Azazel told him you were special. Not to be touched."

Sam dropped the phone.

Dean picked it up. "…you hear me, Sam? The demon knows who you are. Knew already. I don't know what his plan is. I don't even know if Spivey was telling the truth. But… but I think he was. So do Reggie and Bobby. So you need to be careful. And you need to come home. So we can protect you."

"Dad."

"Dean? Where are you? What—"

"I'm not telling you where we are. And we aren't coming back. Not for a while, at least. Maybe not for a long time."

John was silent.

"We're ok. I can keep him safe. You know I can."

"Dean. Sam will be safer with more of us there to protect him."

"What, like you did before? You're the one that got him into this mess."

"That's not fair."

"No, actually, that's perfectly fair. Now, if you want to make it up to Sam, you and everyone there figure out what the hell is going on. Let me worry about keeping Sam safe. I'll damn well do a better job at it than you ever did." Dean's anger was palpable. He kept his hand on Sam's back, who was bent over, breathing rapidly.

"Dean, I'm still your father, and Sam is still a minor, and you'll damn well listen to me when I tell you to get your asses back home—"

"No."

"What?" John blustered.

"I told you before. Sam is mine now. I'm taking care of him. He's my responsibility, not yours."

"Legally—"

Dean laughed. "Since when have you ever cared about what was legal? When you were dragging us from school to school, forging student records? Committing credit card fraud? Petty theft? Or when you were torturing and killing that kid?"

Silence on the other end of the line. Not even breathing.

"I always took care of Sam because you couldn't. Or wouldn't. You had better things to do. And yeah, for a long time, I bought into that. Thought you had good reasons. But no matter which way you cut it, when it came to how you were with Sam, you failed."

The noise John made sounded like a muffled sob.

"I raised him. I loved him. I took care of him. Sam is mine now. Period. End of discussion." Sam raised his head and stared at Dean, the love and admiration and disbelief radiating off him like heat lines off asphalt in summer.

"So if you want to help Sam, please. By all means. Help Sam. But you don't get to order him around anymore, or me. And where you are isn't home."

Sam's jaw dropped open.

"So. Do you actually want to help Sam?"

"Of course I do. I—"

"Then get with your freaky book dude, and all your connections, and you find out what the hell this demon thing wants with Sam, and how we can get it off Sam's back."

"Dean—"

"Is Reggie there?"

"No. No, he's out hunting for you to bring you back."

Dean laughed. "Of course he is. Well, you can call and tell him we're not coming back."

"How are you going to get by? You need food and shelter and—"

"We're covered. I took care of it."

"How the hell—"

"I told you. I can take care of Sam."

John's voice was low, pleading. "Son. I'm scared. I'm scared for you both."

That pulled Dean up short. He held the phone receiver hard enough to drive all the blood from his knuckles.

"I love you. I love both of you. So much. And I'm sorry. Christ, Dean, I'm so sorry…"

Dean's jaw clenched.

"You have to let me help. Please don't… don't shut me out. Let me make amends."

"You want to make amends? Find out what that demon wants with Sam, and how we can stop him. Do that… and… and we'll see."

"I will. Dean. I promise."

"We'll call again in a few days."

"Please. Dean. Don't—"

"Goodbye, Dad."

Dean hung up the phone.

Sam gripped his knees, trying to hold it together. He stared up at him, fear in his eyes. "Dean?"

"It's ok, Sammy. Nothing's gonna hurt you, or take you away from me." Dean held Sam tight, so tight it hurt, but Sam didn't feel a single twinge of pain. He just held onto Dean like the only thing that mattered. And Dean shielded Sam with his arms, and his love, and his dogged, stubborn determination that he was going to get Sam through this safely and out the other side. Somehow.


	42. You Can Sleep While I Drive

Bobby's house was a hive of activity. Hunters coming and going, offering their services, delivering rare tomes that mentioned Azazel, relating information gathered from various supernatural creatures captured and pressed for information, the phones ringing with tips from people in the network who thought they might have seen the boys.

Bobby pored over the books with several hunters. John stood over a large map unfolded over the kitchen table, with markings of where people had searched, the radius of how far the boys could have gotten so far, likely places they might have gone. His ear was bright red from having a phone pressed to it for so long. Half-full coffee cups were everywhere. No one touched the whiskey before it got dark.

They all worked doggedly, frenetically, to learn what Azazel could possibly want with Sam, and how to stop him.

Meanwhile, Reggie was hunting the boys.

The first thing he did when they learned the boys had run away from home was ask to be left alone in the boys' room. He examined every page of the notebook of Sam's drawings, which weren't half bad. He went through the belongings they had left behind—books, summer clothes, action figures, Dean's cowboy boots on the floor of the closet. He sat on the bed and just looked around for a very long time, taking in everything. The football on the dresser. Action figures on the desk. Then he lay back and rested his head on the pillow, thinking.

He rolled onto his side, absently stroking his moustache, and his eyes fell to the Dallas Cowboys comforter. He sat up quickly.

Downstairs, he gathered his things. "I'm heading out. I'll check in with you as often as I can." He patted John on the shoulder.

John looked old, exhausted, sick with worry. He looked at Reggie with grief that was almost unbearable. Reggie knew that look well.

"Reg. You find my boys."

Reggie pulled out a toothpick from the box in his pocket. "Don't worry. I reckon I will."

Sam and Dean barely slept that night, the words of their father about Sam and the demon echoing in their minds. They simply wrapped themselves around each other beneath the blankets, as tight as they could.

Dean wouldn't let himself sleep, and when he did fall into a light slumber, he awoke with a start, heart pounding, skin damp from panic sweat.

Sam just wouldn't sleep.

In the morning, Sam looked awful, with huge bags under his eyes, but he was oddly cheerful.

Dean gave him a quizzical look.

"Hey. If Azazel says I'm not to be touched, I guess we might as well relax for a little while. Right? I mean, I'm not in immediate danger."

Dean wanted to protest, but Sam had a point. They didn't know why the demon had such an interest in Sam, but at least for now, they probably had a pass from whatever demons were around.

It wasn't much. But Dean would take it, hang onto it like a life preserver.

Dean exerted superhuman effort to stifle his need to cough. But the flushing of his cheeks was not something even he could control through sheer force of will.

Sam came up to Dean, eyes dark with worry. "You sick?"

Dean waved him off. "I'm fine."

Before Dean could stop him, Sam pressed his lips to Dean's forehead. The way Mary used to, to check if the boys had a fever. The way Dean had always checked if Sam had one.

"You're sick." Sam's brow furrowed.

"Sam. It's just a cold. We'll stop for cold medicine."

Sam blinked at Dean, perplexed.

"You still want to go to Texas?"

"But. I… Dean. The demon. Me. I…"

"Nothing we can do about that here, right?"

Sam's mouth opened, but nothing came out. Sam couldn't fault Dean's logic. They weren't about to go back, go back home, or to the place that served some of that idealized location's functions. There was nothing keeping them there, and both of them knew Reggie was on their trail. So they might as well press on.

"So let's keep going. Make it a real road trip. Stop wherever we want, do whatever we want…"

"Eat whatever we want…" Sam continued, a smile breaking over his face. Road trips with John were always on his timetable, his agenda.

Sam loaded their bags into the car, and Dean drove them to a gas station to fill up and pick up some cold medicine and tons of road food: beef jerky, chips, root beer, tuna sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, Rolos, Hostess fruit pies, and Hawaiian Punch for Sam.

They took turns driving. Dean found a classic rock station, and they enjoyed that for a while.

They didn't talk about it.

They both knew that as mad as they were at John, he was one of the finest hunters on the planet. Bobby and his contacts could find out anything about anything. If anyone on Earth could figure out what was going on, it was those two men. And until they found out something, there was really nothing to talk about.

So they drove and shared their road snacks, and stared at each other more than the road, and held each other's hand. Sam popped Rolos one at a time into Dean's mouth as he drove. When it was Sam's turn, Dean peeled hard-boiled eggs for him, sprinkling salt from the little paper packets all over the top, spilling onto his jeans, and holding them up for Sam to take bites.

At rest stops, they kissed, but were too exhausted and overwhelmed for anything more.

When Sam needed to use the facilities in private, Dean waited outside—and as soon as Sam was inside, he doubled over, coughing hard, wheezing in breaths that were meant to be deep, but triggered another coughing fit. He had barely recovered, wiping his watering eyes and chugging more cold medicine, when Sam came around the corner. He quickly composed himself, and Sam didn't notice.

They ate lunch at a place near Denver that was built to look like Bent's Old Fort, made out of adobe, with waiters carrying period rifles and powder horns. As soon as they cracked the menu, Dean ordered them a whiskey with real gunpowder. Then he declared Sam had to order "Sam's Buffalo Boudie," which was an authentic type of sausage. Sam agreed, laughing, and dared Dean to order Rocky Mountain Oysters. Dean took the dare—and then as soon as the waiter put the plate of fried testicles in front of him, insisted Sam split it with him, and that Sam had to share his sausage.

They each took a Rocky Mountain Oyster and ate it at the same time.

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"This is good."

Sam laughed. "Who knew?"

They ate slowly, enjoying the meal and their surroundings. Sam drank three cups of coffee, but despite it, he started nodding off.

"Come on. Let's get out of here. You can sleep in the car."

Sam shook his head stubbornly, hair flying in his eyes. "My turn to drive."

Dean brought his leg forward and pressed it against Sam's under the table. "You're too tired. Not safe."

Sam took another bite of the buffalo sausage and slid the plate over to Dean. "Dean. You're sick. I'll drive."

Dean took the last bite of sausage. "'M fine, Sam."

He insisted on driving. Sam eventually drifted into a fitful sleep.

A few miles past the Sand Creek Massacre National Historic Site, the heater stopped working.

"Shit."

Sam woke with a start, fear bright in his eyes.

"It's ok. But the heat just crapped out." Dean pulled over and poked around futilely at wires, but the heater would not respond. So he made Sam put on his warm coat and scarf, and Sam bundled Dean up like a little kid in a snowstorm, and Dean kept driving, gritting his teeth and shaking his head from time to time like a dog with water in its ears.

When they saw the Welcome to Texas sign, they grinned at each other like little kids.

By the time they neared Amarillo, Dean was noticeably shivering.

Sam was not, although he was quite cold. "Pull over."

"Sam, I'm fine."

"Pull the damn car over." The command tone of Sam's voice made it clear he wasn't taking no for an answer. Dean pulled onto the shoulder. Sam put his hand on Dean's forehead. "Fuck."

Dean just blinked, unable to generate yet another protest when the truth was so clear.

"You're burning up."

"Freezing."

Sam swore again. "Come on. I'm driving." He made Dean switch places with him, looked over the map, and nodded. "Looks like there are some motels not too far. We'll rest."

Sam passed the first motel they saw from the highway.

Dean just looked at Sam, eyes bloodshot.

"It didn't feel right."

Dean tilted his head questioningly.

"I don't know. I just… got a feeling."

Sam drove a little farther, and then without warning, he took an exit.

Dean opened his mouth to speak, and erupted in a coughing fit. When he recovered, he said, "Where are you taking us?"

Sam pointed to a nondescript motel up ahead, with a faded sign that read Jaeger Motel.

"How did you see that from the road?"

Sam pursed his lips, then finally spoke. "I didn't. I just…"

"Got a feeling?"

Sam gave Dean a look.

"I trust you, Sammy." Dean put his hand on Sam's leg.

"Ok."

Behind them, a pair of headlights followed them off the highway onto the road leading to the motel.

Sam drove over a long, unbroken white shape like a speed bump that snaked in front of the entrance to the parking lot, and around the entire edge of the motel. He pulled the car up to the main office. "Wait here. I'll check us in."

Sam went inside.

The car, a dark sedan, drove into the parking lot—and stopped suddenly, with the front wheels over the white bump. Abruptly, the car went into reverse, and slowly drove away.

Sam rang the bell on the counter. Within a few moments, a dark-haired woman in her mid-twenties came to the counter. "Hello." Her voice was warm and resonant.

"I'd like a room, please."

The woman looked at Sam with a curious kind of intensity. "Sure. Do you prefer ground floor or second floor?"

"Second floor." John always had them stay on the second floor because he said they were less prone to break-ins.

She nodded like Sam just said something smart. "Just you?"

"No, it's me and my…" Sam almost said brother, but hesitated. "My boyfriend."

The woman's face softened into a smile. "It's ok. You're among friends here."

Sam exhaled, unaware he'd been holding his breath.

"I'm Juliane." She extended her hand.

Sam thought fast. He couldn't give her their real names. "I'm Paul. And my boyfriend's name is Gene."

"He's waiting in the car?"

"He's not feeling well."

"Ah." Juliane took a key down from the wall behind her. "The rooms are $40 a night."

Sam reached into his pocket. "Is cash ok?"

Again, that rapid blink, like she was taking a photo. "That's fine." He put some bills down. "Two nights. To start."

Juliane slid the key across the counter toward him. He reached for it, and his fingers accidentally brushed hers. She jerked her hand back as though she'd received a shock of static electricity. "Room 204." She looked outside at the car. "Would you like any help bringing up your bags?"

"No thanks. We can handle it."

Sam pulled the car into a parking space and tugged Dean out of the passenger seat. He swayed on his feet. "Dean?"

Dean shook his head. "M fine, Sammy." Sam slung Dean's duffel over his shoulder, the one with all the money in it, and supported Dean with his other arm. Dean leaned on him heavily, stumbling up the stairs, and practically staggered into the room.

"Lay down. I gotta get my bag. Be right back." At the threshold, Sam paused, then opened Dean's duffel and pulled out the salt. "Just to be safe." He quickly laid down a thick salt line along the door and windows. "Ok. Be right back."

Sam ran downstairs and got the rest of the stuff out of the car. As he headed back towards the stairs, Juliane came out of the office and walked toward him. "Wait! You gave me too much money—"

Above them, Dean opened the door to their room. "Gotta watch out for you…" He swayed on his feet, and then collapsed.

Sam raced up the stairs two at a time, and flung the bags onto the floor, dropping to his knees. "Dean?"

Dean was barely conscious, face pale, and sweating profusely.

Behind him, Juliane's voice. "Is he alright? How can I help?"

Sam looked up at her, eyes bright with panic. She glanced down at the line of salt over the 's mouth fell open, brain whirling, trying to spin an explanation.

"Oh, don't be silly. I knew what you were the second I saw you."

Sam turned pale, his hand involuntarily going to his knife.

"You're a hunter. Both of you."

Sam's mouth fell open a little wider.

She stepped across the salt line and entered the room. "This whole place is warded. And the perimeter is protected." Sam blinked in confusion. "The white bump you drove over? Pure salt."

"You…"

"This place is a motel, but it's also a safe haven for hunters. I'll explain everything later." She knelt alongside Dean. "What's wrong with him?"

Sam stroked Dean's forehead. "He's just sick. I mean—it's nothing supernatural. He just got the flu or something."

Juliane shook her hair back over her shoulders."He should be on the bed, yes?"

Sam picked up Dean and carried him to the bed, where he took off his heavy jacket and sweatshirt and laid him down. He tossed his head in protest, moaning. Juliane got a washcloth from the bathroom, soaked it in cool water and gave it to Sam. "Here. Cool his head down. I'll be right back."

Sam sat next to Dean on the bed placed the cool wet cloth on his forehead. He gasped like it burned, and then made a soft sound of pleasure.

"Does that feel good?"

Dean's eyes opened. "Sammy?"

"I told her my name was Paul." Sam smiled. "And you're Gene. Cover names."

"What, you didn't want to be Ace?" Dean managed to make a small smile.

"Shhh… you just rest. Let me take care of you."

Dean struggled, trying to sit up. "No way."

"You're really fucking sick. I'm all better now. And you're gonna let me take care of you."

"My job. Take care of you." Dean muttered, falling back, as weak as a kitten.

"It's my turn now." Sam stroked Dean's arm.

Dean hissed. "Skin hurts."

"Sorry. I'll be careful." Sam placed his hand on Dean's chest and just let it rest there. Whenever Dean got really sick, which had only happened a few times in Sam's memory, his skin got so sensitive the slightest touch was painful.

Juliane returned with a bucket of ice, and a paper bag, from which she pulled a thermometer, a large bottle of yellow Gatorade, a bottle of Nyquil, and a bottle of Tylenol. "They're all sealed. You can check them."

Sam did.

Sam slipped the thermometer under Dean's tongue. "103.2," he read.

"Not good."

Sam shook his head no, face creased with concern.

Juliane poured a glass of Gatorade and gave it to Sam, along with the Tylenol. Sam blinked at her gratefully. "Thank you."

Dean struggled to sit up, sweating profusely, swallowed the pills Sam gave him and fell back against the pillow.

"I'll leave you to it. Call me if you need anything tonight, ok?"

Sam held Dean's hand, and nodded.

"Tomorrow, I'll bring him some soup, and we can talk."

Sam stood up. "Thank you. So much. I don't even know what I would have done."

Juliane smiled. "Good thing you found me."

Sam blew out a breath through his nose. "No kidding." He moved forward to hug her.

She sidestepped him deftly. "He needs you. We'll talk tomorrow."

She glanced at Dean. His eyes were open, vividly green, watching her intently.

"I'm sure you'll feel better soon."

When she had left, and Sam had locked the door and set the wedge into place on the bottom edge, Dean murmured, "You check her?"

Sam wrapped some ice in the wet cloth and smoothed it over Dean's forehead. "She's one of the good guys, Dean. Plus, she crossed the salt line no problem."

Dean frowned, then lay back and let Sam give him another drink of Gatorade, followed by a cupful of Nyquil, and then fell into a fever-fueled stupor.

Sam undressed him and put him into his sweats and softest t-shirt, and got him into bed. He sponged Dean's face and chest with the ice-filled cloth, gently wiping away the drips of water with a dry cloth, until the ice bucket was nearly empty, and Dean was asleep.

Sam gently toweled off the drips of water that had run into Dean's hair and down his neck, and kissed his forehead. Dean made a soft, happy sound. Sam's shoulders slumped as the relief washed over him.

Then Sam changed into his sweats, pulled out his book, and climbed into bed next to Dean.

Dean stirred. "Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

Dean turned on his side and reached for Sam. "Love you."

"I love you back."

Dean fell asleep with his hand on Sam's stomach. He read quietly and watched over Dean all night long.


	43. On Their Trail

The miles whipped past, the Dodge Challenger eating up the road, reliable and steady. Just like its driver. Reggie gnawed on yet another toothpick, mind working furiously.

The thing that made Reggie such an effective hunter was not his dogged determination, or his intelligence. It was his empathy. He had an uncanny knack for putting himself into the mind of his prey. Working out what they wanted, and how they were most likely to try to get it. And this skill did not end with monsters.

Reggie put himself deep inside the mind of Sam. Because he knew in this running away from home business, Sam was the instigator. Sam needed to escape his father and Bobby. Dean had his back, but Sam's hurt and confusion was driving this.

Reggie drove and tried to put Sam on. Tried to crawl inside that teenage boy, wear his pain and his need, his sweetness, his bravery. Not merely to think like him. To feel like him. Figure out where Sam would go to lick his wounds. If Sam stared at a map, where would he want to go?

But it wasn't just Sam. Dean was along for the ride too. A foolish man would fail to factor that into their flight path.

Reggie settled into his seat and imagined it. Unable to sleep. Up in the middle of the night, fleeing into that bitter cold. That kind of decision was prompted not by careful reflection, but by sharp emotional need. The desperate need to get away, fast. And they didn't take a car from Bobby's lot. Too loud. So they must have hitched a ride. And the closest major highway was 90 that ran east to west.

There were hunters fanning out in all directions, doing systematic sweeps. He had the freedom to go where his instinct told him. And his instinct flashed on two young men in the freezing cold, trying to catch the quickest ride to anywhere. And from anywhere, they could formulate a plan.

So he picked the closest highway. And as to the direction? What prompted his choice was fairly ridiculous. As he idled the car, looking to the east then the west, a phrase bubbled up in his memory. "Go west, young man." So he headed west.

Far greater decisions with more profound ramifications had been decided in such a fashion.

Reggie sucked the hot-sweet cinnamon from the toothpick in his mouth, and turned on the radio. _Cassette tape in Sam and Dean's desk drawer. Disraeli Gears by Cream_. He turned the dial until he heard the familiar strains of Pink Floyd's Money. He drove down the highway, listening to classic rock, immersed in the feel of a teenage boy running away from home, running away from the overwhelming weight of what he'd been through, the unbearable truth he'd learned about his father.

The years fell away from Reggie. The grey hair. The wrinkles etched into the corners of his eyes and his mouth. The skin that was no longer taut. The music sank into him and resurrected the chestnut-haired, lean young man he'd been. On a road trip. Free for the first time in his life.

He threw his head back and laughed, caught off guard by the exhilaration of it.

Out of the corner of his eye, a road sign whipped past. He only caught the word Drug.

Not long after, he saw another, and read the entire thing. _Free Coffee and Donut for Veterans. Wall Drug. _He nibbled the end of the toothpick with his front teeth, shredding the end to a feathery mass. It was about time for a pit stop. And he'd served in Vietnam, so free coffee and a donut sounded pretty damn good.

Reggie finished the last of the coffee and wiped a few stray donut crumbs from his shirt. Wall Drug seemed like the sort of place Sam and Dean would have stopped, if they'd come in this direction. So he poked around, eyeing the jackalope in the front, the signs about the animatronic Tyrannosaur. He went inside the Rock Shop and perused the display cases.

On the wall were a few resin jackalope heads, mounted on display plaques. One bore a sticker reading "50% off. As Is." A chunk of one of its antlers was broken off.

"Good deal on that one," the saleswoman said cheerfully, coming around from behind the counter.

"Guess it lost that fight," Reggie said, moustache twitching.

"Some kid knocked it off the wall. Tall as a moose, and just as clumsy."

Reggie snapped to attention. "Tall boy? Long brown hair?"

The woman blinked rapidly with surprise. "Actually, yes." Reggie fished in his wallet and pulled out a photo, the only photo of Sam and Dean Bobby had. It was of them several years earlier. "Look like this kid but older?" Reggie held out the photo to her.

She tapped her candy-pink fake fingernail on Sam's face. "It might have been this one." She peered into Reggie's face questioningly.

Reggie laid on the drawl. "That's my boy. My boys," he corrected himself. "They took off a couple of days ago. I'm trying to find them. You're sure that's him?"

She studied the photo again. "Yes. That's him. I remember the dimples." She glanced up at him. "So… he's your son? Does that mean you're going to pay for the damage?" She gestured at the broken jackalope.

Reggie blew out a breath, and pulled out some bills.

She charged him the full price.

Reggie tossed the jackalope into the passenger seat, and settled in behind the wheel. They had come this direction. He'd guessed right. He sighed, rubbing his mouth. _Damn lucky_, he thought.

He looked at the map, trying to figure out where to go next. Where would they go? It was impossible, really. John's idea of the shotgun approach was probably the most sensible. A wide spray of buckshot covering a large area, and you might hit something.

But that's what the other hunters were doing. He could run with his instincts, and maybe he'd keep getting lucky.

He trailed his fingertip along the map, tracing different routes. North. East. South. West. Here and there. He closed his eyes, remembered laying on Sam and Dean's bed, immersed in the feel and sight and scent of their room, the objects they'd left behind. _I'm Sam. Just me and Dean. We can go anywhere. Where do we go?_

He let his sense memory erupt with details. Sam's sketch book. The action figures. The football. The blue and white of the Dallas Cowboys bedding.

His eyes flashed open.

His fingertip traced a squiggle on the map, moved south. To Texas.

He made good time on the road south, driving faster than he should have, but lost time stopping at every gas station, motel or roadside attraction on the way where Sam and Dean might have stopped. He showed the photo to everyone. _Have you seen these boys? My sons. Ran away from home. _The elation he felt earlier faded with each no.

Crazy. This was crazy. But he kept trying.

At 2 am, exhaustion got the better of him; he stopped at a Motel 6, rousing a bleary-eyed clerk from his cot in the back. He slept in, got a hearty breakfast as was his habit on hunts, and got behind the wheel once more. He pulled the photo of Sam and Dean from his wallet and stuck it behind the clip on the sun visor. He closed his eyes.

"I don't pray often. Y'all know that by now." His voice resonated through the car. "I prefer to help myself. But I could use some help here, if anyone's listening. If you care to get involved." He touched the photo, eyes still closed. "I need to find these boys. And they won't mind being found, so long as it's me. I promise." He opened his eyes, and stared at the smiling faces of Sam and Dean. "See, these two are important. And I need to get to 'em fast before… well, you probably know. There are some evil sons-a-bitches with plans for Sam. Now, I've never met any of you good guys in person, but I've sent plenty of demons back to hell. And I know about the balance. So if there's demons around, y'all are too. So… if you could give a guy a hand here, I'd be in your debt."

Reggie didn't really expect a sign from God or the voice of angels giving him a street address. He just breathed out a heavy sigh, letting his request echo in the air, and started the car. "Sure hope one of you heard me."

Reggie continued his search, stopping everywhere, showing the photo of the boys to every gas station attendant and motel clerk on the way. No one recognized them. But the photo was several years old, and both Sam and Dean had matured a lot since it had been taken. In the picture, they looked like kids, two brothers, Dean's arm slung over Sam's shoulders, taller than him for probably the last time.

After showing the photo to what felt like the thousandth person, Reggie tucked the photo back in his wallet. "Any recommendations for a can't miss place to eat around here?"

The gas station attendant, a muscular young man in oil-stained coveralls, looked Reggie up and down. "You look like kind of a history buff."

Reggie smiled. "You could say that, I suppose."

"Then you should check out The Fort." The guy scribbled an address on a piece of note paper. "Your kinda place."

Reggie drove to the address, and a huge smile creased his face when he pulled into the driveway and saw the replica adobe fort. The place smelled great too. But before eating, he had to take care of business.

He showed the photo to the hostess, the bartender and a few servers, all of whom didn't recognize the boys. Resigned, he allowed himself to be seated. The disappointment was bitter. This really seemed like the kind of place they might have stopped. Just for the gunpowder whiskey.

A different waiter approached to bring him a menu. He was older than the other servers, in his mid-fifties, with black hair graying at the temples and a neatly trimmed goatee.

"Good afternoon. I'm Marcus, and I'll be taking care of you today." Marcus's eyes were green.

Reggie found himself surprised that he noticed that.

"Today's special is the elk chops with wild Montana huckleberries. Can I bring you something to drink?"

Marcus's eyes dropped to Reggie's hands holding the closed menu, and back up to meet Reggie's gaze.

A warmth suffused Reggie's body. A warmth he hadn't felt in a while.

He smiled, and Marcus's answering smile made that warmth flare hotter.

"Yeah. Um. I have to try that gunpowder whiskey."

"Not surprised." Marcus had a beautiful smile. "I'll be right back with that."

Reggie left the unopened menu on the table, watching Marcus getting his drink from the bartender, noticing the solid lines of muscle beneath his long-sleeved white dress shirt and black slacks.

It had been a while, indeed.

Marcus returned and handed him his drink. His fingers brushed Reggie's. An idea popped into Reggie's mind.

"Hey, can I ask you a question?"

Marcus smiled again, a bit shyly. "Sure."

"I'm looking for some friends of mine who might have passed this way. Did you happen to serve two young guys over the past day or so?" Reggie did not pull the photo of the two young brothers from his wallet. Instead, he went with the instinct that rose within him, strong and insistent. "A couple. One's real tall."

Marcus looked surprised. "That's so weird."

Reggie sat up ramrod straight, and cocked his head questioningly.

"I did. Real good looking boys. They were really into each other. I was a little worried for them, actually. I mean, around here…"

Reggie's expression hardened. "We have to be careful."

Marcus nodded. "PDAs can get you in a lot of trouble. You know."

Reggie blinked back the memory of Nathan, bloodied and beaten. "I know."

"So, why are you looking for them?"

Reggie thought fast. "The tall one's my nephew. The other one's his boyfriend. He just came out, and his dad kicked him out."

Marcus's face darkened.

"He took off with his boyfriend. I'm just trying to find them, help him out, so he doesn't have to go through what I did."

Marcus nodded, understanding what Reggie didn't have to put into words. "That's nice of you."

"On occasion, I'm a nice person." Reggie's moustache twitched. "So, what can you remember about them? Did they seem ok?"

Marcus set his pad on the table. "They looked exhausted. But really into each other. Crazy in love. Sweet, really." Marcus thought. "The older one ordered gunpowder whiskey. Like you. And Rocky Mountain Oysters. They were cracking up over that. Daring each other to go first. But they ended up liking them. Oh, and they made a point of ordering Sam's Buffalo Sausages. Thought that was funny, too."

Reggie closed his eyes, relief washing over him. They were here. He was sure of it.

"Thank you. You have no idea…"

Marcus grinned. "Crazy. I mean, the odds… Someone must be watching over you."

Reggie ordered the Rocky Mountain Oysters and Sam's Buffalo Boudie, and thoroughly enjoyed both. Marcus was very attentive—and Reggie found himself thoroughly enjoying that too.

He paid the bill, including a generous tip. "Thanks for your help." He stood, placing his napkin on the table. Marcus picked up the ticket and cash. "I'd ask what you were doing tonight, but I get the feeling you're not sticking around town that long."

Reggie just stood still, feeling the pull of attraction that murmured _stay you know you want to stay_, and briefly entertained the fantasy.

Briefly.

Marcus felt the moment shift without Reggie having to say anything. "I thought so." He tried to conceal his disappointment with a smile. He stuck a scrap of paper into Reggie's hand. "Hey, if you come through here again sometime, we could maybe have dinner. I make really good lasagna."

Reggie's fingers closed gently over Marcus's hand, concealed from unfriendly eyes by the back of the booth. "When I find the boys and make sure they're safe, I'll come back and take you up on that." His fingers, warm and smooth on Marcus's wrist, felt Marcus's pulse leap.

"Really?" Marcus's face lit up.

Reggie tucked the piece of paper into his pocket and strode toward the exit, running his fingers through his long grey hair, looking back over his shoulder with a grin that reached all the way to his striking blue eyes. "Oh, that's a promise."


	44. I Hear You Calling Juliane

Morning light glowed in a thin line where the blackout curtains didn't quite meeet. Sam pushed the hair back off his forehead and stroked Dean's shoulder, gently urging him onto his back. "Dean?"

"M fine," Dean muttered in a raspy voice, and winced. Sam helped him sit up, propping his own pillow behind his shoulders, and brought the thermometer to Dean's lips.

Dean turned his head. "Thirsty."

"After I take your temperature." Dean opened his mouth and let Sam slip the thermometer beneath his tongue.

When it beeped, Sam checked it. He couldn't hide the microexpression of concern.

"I'm dying?" Dean's eyes were bloodshot, but he tried to smile.

"You're not dying." Sam kissed Dean on the forehead. "I just hoped the fever would be lower."

Dean pulled Sam's wrist toward him, peering at the thermometer. It read 101. Dean beamed like he'd gotten an A on a test. "It's better."

Sam smiled. "Yes. It is."

Dean reached for the water glass. Sam helped him drink. Then he filled the coffee maker with water and rummaged through the small selection of tea bags. "Black or chamomile?"

Dean fixed Sam with a baleful look.

Sam grinned. "What… no chamomile?"

"Smells like cat piss," Dean grumbled.

Sam tore open the black tea's paper envelope. Dean swung his legs out of bed and stood up…then swayed and sat back down heavily. Sam was at his side in a flash.

"Dean."

"It's ok. Just stood up too fast." He lay down on his back, face pale. "Dizzy."

Sam's mouth tightened. When Dean had recovered, Sam helped him up and half-carried him into the bathroom. Dean shooed him out, one hand braced on the sink. "I got this."

Sam let him have his privacy. When the water was hot, he filled the mug. The toilet flushed, and Dean was standing in the doorway, leaning heavily against the door jamb.

Sam guided him back to bed, gave him another dose of cold and flu medicine, and brought him his tea. Dean sipped it gratefully.

Sam sat on the bed next to Dean, turned on the TV and flipped through the channels. "What do you want? Cartoons? This Old House?"

"Soft-core," Dean croaked.

But when Sam landed on a re-run of the Munsters, Dean tapped his leg.

They watched TV for a while, Dean sipping his tea, glancing at Sam over the rim of his mug.

"Sam. You sleep?"

Sam shook his hair back, taking a deep breath. "Yeah. I slept."

Dean put his hand on Sam's cheek and turned his face toward him. Sam's eyes were almost as bloodshot as Dean's, the dark circles beneath stark and damning evidence to the contrary.

Dean stroked his thumb over Sam's jaw. "Liar."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead."

Dean's face changed.

"Kidding! I'm kidding."

"Not funny."

Sam leaned forward and butted his head gently against Dean's, nuzzling him like a puppy. "Sorry."

Dean allowed himself to be mollified. They watched the old show for a while. Dean finished his tea and slumped against the pillows, eyes closing again.

Sam let the television play, but no longer watched the screen. Instead, he looked around the room, swayed slightly, eyes closing in a moment of microsleep, then opened again, giving no indication he was aware he'd been asleep. This happened again. And again.

A gentle knock at the door. "Paul?"

Sam's eyes flew open. He looked around the room, confused. Who was Paul? Then he remembered the cover names they'd given to Juliane.

He opened the door. Juliane stood there with a large open-topped cardboard box in her hands. Her breath was visible in the cold air.

"Come in."

She entered quickly and set the box down on the table. "How is he doing?"

Sam's eyes moved to Dean, fast asleep on the bed. "His temperature dropped. A little."

Juliane peered at Sam. "You don't look much better than he does."

Sam turned on his "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain" smile. "Oh, I'm good. Just not sleeping a lot."

"You're worried about him."

Sam ran his fingers through his hair. "Yeah. I was… I mean, what if he's got…" He was having trouble finding the words. "What if it's some kind of demon fever?"

Juliane's mouth twitched, and she repressed a smile. She pulled her hair back and secured it with a hair band from the pocket of her jacket. "A demon fever?"

Sam tilted his head with a look that was surprisingly canine.

"It's not a demon fever." Juliane walked to the bed and looked down at Dean.

"How do you know?"

She smiled at Sam. "Because there's no such thing."

Dean stirred, peering up at her.

"Good morning, Gene."

Dean licked his lips, blinking blearily. "At the wrong party, little lady."

"Gene." Sam's voice was loud. "Remember?" He pointed at Juliane. "The woman who runs this place."

Dean's expression was pure "What the hell is going on?" Then his brain moved through the sluggishness of being sick. "Mmm. Right."

"I brought you some oatmeal. With maple syrup and butter." Dean's expression was suspicious but softened at the mention of maple syrup. "And some soup for later."

Sam looked in the box. Inside were two ceramic bowls of oatmeal, covered in foil and still hot, and several cans of soup: chicken noodle, vegetable beef and tomato.

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "That's so nice of you."

Juliane looked embarrassed, and pulled her jacket around her. "It's just canned."

Sam helped Dean sit up, and brought him his bowl of oatmeal. Dean's expression was worried, but the first bite elicited a yummy sound, which he promptly looked embarrassed to have made.

Sam tried his. "Mmm."

Juliane looked pleased. "It's good?"

They both nodded in unison.

Juliane looked at the floor, then back at the boys. "You have questions about this place. And me."

Dean's face turned serious, even as he shoveled in great spoonfuls of oatmeal.

Juliane leaned against the dresser. "I'm not a hunter. But my husband was. He died. And I…" she hesitated. "I needed something to do. So I bought this place and made some improvements."

"By yourself?"

"Oh no. Some local hunters helped me. Friends. They've moved on. All but one. He stopped hunting, and helps me run the place."

Sam said. "Ok, but seriously, this oatmeal." He took another bite.

Juliane looked at the carpet, color rising in her cheeks. "You're very sweet."

"Anyway, sorry. You were saying?"

Juliane rubbed the back of her neck. "I wanted to make a safe place for hunters who were hurt or tired or in danger. Where they would be protected from…everything. Supernatural creatures, humans, whatever they needed protection from." She gestured at the room. "These rooms have basic wards. But the real shelter is behind this building." She met Sam's gaze. "If a hunter finds us, and asks for shelter, they are invited to stay there, as long as they need to. No questions asked. I don't get involved. I just offer what I offer. Monsters can't get in. And if anyone human comes along asking questions, I tell them nothing. It's a sanctuary in the full sense of the word."

Dean sneezed, sucked in a deep breath, and then erupted in a full sneezing fit. Sam brought him more tissue from the bathroom, picked up the collection of used tissues on the end table, and dropped them in the waste basket.

"How do hunters find you?" Sam sat back down on the bed.

"Some hear about this place through word of mouth. Others follow the beacon."

"The what?"

Juliane took a deep breath. "A spell that draws hunters in need of shelter. Think of it like a signal fire. Only the ones with psychic abilities can sense it, though."

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

"Many hunters have a little touch of it," Juliane continued. "Maybe that's part of what draws them to the life."

"Why do you... do all this?"Dean's voice was hoarse.

Juliane looked startled. "What?"

"What's in it for you?"

Juliane's expression immediately became unreadable. "I don't ask personal questions of people who stay here. Gene." She emphasized the last word.

Sam and Dean registered what that meant at the same time.

"And I don't answer them. You're welcome to move to the sanctuary if you have need of it. If you don't, feel free to stay here until you're feeling better."

"Hey." Sam stood. "He didn't mean anything. We're grateful for your help."

Juliane's demeanor softened slightly, but she remained guarded. "Maybe you should get some rest, and think about it."

"Yeah. We'll do that." Sam stuck out his hand. "Thank you for the oatmeal and soup and everything."

Juliane stared at his hand. "I… please don't take this as being rude, but I don't want to get sick, and you just, with the tissue paper…"

Sam pulled his hand back, embarrassed. "You're right. Of course."

"Come find me later, if you want. If I'm not in the office, Danny will find me for you." She paused. "For what it's worth, I hope you'll decide to stay."

Sam opened the door for her, letting in a sharp blast of cold, and she hurried down the stairs.

Sam washed his hands in the sink, and brought Dean a fresh glass of water.

"Hey. How're you feeling?"

Dean sniffed. "Bit better."

Sam sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh, relief plain on his face. " Good." He was quiet for a moment, and just held Dean's hand. His eyelids fluttered, his eyes flickering from side to side, then opened normally again. "What do you think?"

Dean chewed his lower lip, watching Sam closely. Then he answered. "Nice. But…something about her is off."

Sam sighed. "Yeah?"

"She's hiding something. And… she doesn't let you touch her."

"Dude. I just dumped your snot rags and didn't wash my hands."

"Not just then. I noticed it a couple times." Dean coughed. "Need to do the tests on her, man."

"Yeah. Ok." Sam's eyes fluttered again, his gaze losing focus.

"Sam. Get your ass down here. You're falling asleep sitting up."

Sam stared at Dean. "No I'm not."

"You so are."

"I didn't even close my eyes."

Dean didn't say anything, just pulled Sam's pillow from behind him, put it back and tugged Sam down. "Don't make me Nyquil you. Down." Sam let Dean have his way, and settled down behind Dean, arm around him. Within seconds, he was asleep. When Dean heard the unmistakable change in Sam's breathing, he made a soft, satisfied grunt, and drifted off to sleep as well.

A few minutes passed. Sam's body jerked. His hand tightened into a fist, then he went rigid. His eyes flashed open. Carefully, he pulled away from Dean, rummaged in his duffel, pulled out a packet of Vivarin and swallowed two tablets dry. Then he crawled next to Dean again and held him, staring at the blank white wall.

After a few moments, his eyes focused on the corner of the room. He laughed. "How'd you get in here?"

Dean stirred, murmuring, "What?"

Sam kissed the back of his neck. "There's a cat in here."

Dean opened his eyes. "No cat. You'res so sleep deprived, you're hallucinating."

Sam protested. "It's right there—" He shook his head. "Weird."

Dean dragged Sam down and pulled his arm around him. "Come here, baby boy. Get some sleep."

Sam held Dean, and nuzzled the back of his neck with his mouth. "Hope you feel better soon." He snuggled closer, hips pressing against Dean.

"Mmmm." Dean held Sam's hand. "Soon."

Dean slept for almost three hours. Sam drifted in and out of microsleep without realizing it. Sam microwaved Dean some chicken soup. Dean drank more cold medicine, and demanded Sam let him take a shower. Afterward, he began putting on his street clothes. "We can't stay here any longer until we check her out."

Sam looked at Dean like he was confused, trying to decide, and then breathed out. "Yeah. Ok."

"I don't get the feeling she's going to volunteer for it, Sammy."

"Ok."

"You hold her still. I'll do the tests. Ok?"

Sam nodded. "Sure."

Dean pulled himself upright and gathered what he needed: the flask of holy water, the silver knife, and the rest of what he needed to do the tests.

"You feel up to this?"

Dean smirked. "Can't keep me down long. Let's go."

They put on their warm jackets and walked downstairs to the front office. A guy with dirty blond hair in his late thirties came out when Sam rang the bell.

"Hey. Are you Danny?"

Danny extended his hand. "That would be me."

Sam shook his hand. "We wanted to talk to Juliane."

Danny nodded. "I'll bring you back." He led them behind the counter and into the back office. There, he brought them to the far end of the room, unlocked a door that led into a long hallway, closing and locking it behind them. The hallway was lined with sigils and symbols painted on the floor, walls and ceiling. Halfway through the hallway was what looked like a bead curtain that ran from floor to ceiling. As they got closer, the beads revealed themselves to be small iron spheres. Danny parted the curtain with his hands and passed through, followed by Sam and Dean. At the end of the hallway was a heavy wooden door, ornately carved with runes. Danny opened the door into a large apartment, with kitchen, living room and a bedroom in the far corner, and another large wooden door on the far wall.

The floor of the room was a pink, marbled material. "Himalayan salt slabs," Danny explained.

Dean's eyebrows went up. "Nice."

Juliane was at a large old-fashioned roll-top desk. Her jacket lay draped over the couch, and she wore what looked like a Fair Isle sweater, with rows of runes and sigils instead of snowflakes and geometric shapes. She stood and smiled at Danny. "Thank you." He hesitated, watching her face carefully. "It's ok." He nodded, and went back to the office.

"You're looking better." She turned her attention to Dean.

"That oatmeal. What can I say?" Dean gave her his best smile.

Sam moved along the wall, taking in the books of lore, curious and symbols. "Wow."

Dean spoke quickly. "So… slabs of salt for the floor? That's kind of brilliant. You thought of that?" Sam walked a little further, past her line of vision. She turned away from him to Dean.

"Yes, I came up with that myself—"

Sam moved behind her with incredible speed, and had his arms around her before she even saw him coming. She screamed and twisted in his grasp, kicking and flailing like a feral cat.

"Come on! Hold her still."

"She's fucking strong," Sam muttered.

"Let me go, just, please let me go…" Sam only gripped her tighter.

"Hold still. We have to do this." Dean opened the flask of holy water and splashed it in Juliane's face.

Nothing happened. No smoke, no sizzling flesh. She didn't even seem to register it, so desperate was she to get free from Sam's grasp. She fought so violently, she managed to tear one arm free. Dean seized her wrist, the cuff of the sweater sliding up, making direct contact with her skin. Her head snapped around and she howled.

Dean pulled the silver knife out of his jacket pocket. When she saw it, she froze and started shaking. "No. No no no..." She looked up at Sam in supplication. "Please.."

Sam winced. "We have to. I'm sorry."

She erupted in a frenzy of resistance, pulling down and back, then trying to leap into the air, anything to get free. Dean lost his grip on her wrist, but Sam managed to squeeze her in a bear hug from behind, locking her arms to her body. Dean brought the knife up. Tears streamed down her face, and she gasped, shuddering. Dean took her wrist again. "Hold on tight." He looked at Sam, then drew the knife along the palm of her hand.

She bled. Like a human. No other reaction to the silver.

"Son of a bitch." Dean looked stunned.

From behind her, Sam's voice issued. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii…" No black smoke poured out of her mouth. The words had no effect. She simply shook.

Sam finished the anti-possession spell. He and Dean looked at each other. Then he let her go.

She sank to her knees, scrabbled sideways away from them until she hit the wall. She pressed up against it, dark hair spilling over her face, almost like she was trying to drive herself through it.

Dean walked to her slowly, palms out, and got down on one knee. "I'm sorry." He reached for her hand.

She yanked her hand away. "Don't touch me," she whispered, curling in on herself even tighter. Folding into a fetal position, she rocked back and forth.

Dean stared at Sam. "What did we do?"

Sam pulled a throw from the couch and came forward. He got on his knees, and held it out to her. "Hey. Here." She didn't look at him. "I'm not going to touch you. Promise."

She tilted her head sideways and peered at him through strands of hair.

"I'm gonna put this over you. Is that ok?"

She blinked a few times, then nodded.

He draped the throw over her shoulders, taking exquisite care not to touch her. She pulled the ends around her, and lay down on her side.

Sam stood and pulled Dean away. "She's human."

Dean rubbed his jaw. "Unless she's something we don't know how to test for."

Sam shook his head. "That covers everything. Salt, iron, holy water, silver, exorcism. Anything supernatural that anyone has ever heard of would react to one of those. And I doubt she's some sort of new creature."

Dean made a face. "So…she's human."

"She's human."

"So what the hell is wrong with her?"

Suddenly, Juliane was on her feet. "You want to know what's wrong with me?" Her face was contorted with pain and anger. "You really have to know?" The throw fell to the floor in a soft heap. "Alright." She crossed her hands, grabbed the hem of the sweater and pulled it over her head. She extended her arms out, palms forward.

Sam and Dean gasped.

Underneath the sweater, she wore only a sports bra. Nearly every inch of skin was covered with thick scars, long ribbons laid down with deliberate intent and cruel precision, and deep dimples that could have only been caused by stab wounds.

She turned in place in a macabre parody of a runway model displaying all the features of a couture gown. Her back was laced with scars even deeper than the others.

Dean closed his eyes.

She turned to face them. "Is that enough? You want to see them all?" She put her hands on the zipper of her jeans. "I've got some really memorable ones…"

She stopped when she saw the tears spilling down Sam's face.

He walked to her, bent and retrieved the throw, and extended it to her. His hand shook visibly.

She took it and wrapped it around herself, then walked to the couch and sank down.

No one said anything for a long time.

"You could have just asked, you know."

Dean's face crumbled under the weight of shame and sorrow.

Juliane asked, simply,"Why?"

Sam blew out a heavy sigh. "You went out of your way so I wouldn't touch you. And… it was weird, and we could tell you were hiding something..."

Juliane met Sam's gaze. "I don't like to be touched."

Dean rubbed his mouth.

Juliane fixed Dean with a hard stare. "You're not going to trust me until you know everything."

Dean couldn't meet her eyes.

"But it's because you love him."

He looked up in surprise.

"You protect him. You'd do anything to keep him safe. And you don't trust me because you knew something was wrong with me that I was keeping a secret."

Dean extended his hands in an apologetic gesture. "There's nothing—"

"Yes there is." She pulled the throw tighter around her. "There's a lot wrong with me." She fell silent. "I don't think I like you." Dean's eyes went wide. "But I admire that you'll do whatever it takes to protect him. So I'll tell you. But hand me my sweater first."

Sam retrieved her sweater, and they turned their backs so she could put it back on. Sam and Dean sat on the small couch perpendicular to the one she was on.

She pulled the throw back up to her chin, curling her feet underneath her.

"Justin—my husband- was a really good hunter. He killed a lot of bad things. Just over two years ago, he took out a nest of vampires. But two of them weren't there… and they didn't take the news well. So they tracked him down."

She closed her eyes. "I was with him. They…" She shook her head. "They held me down and made him watch…" She took a deep breath. "I can't. They…did things. And they had a thing for knives." She opened her eyes. "They did bad things and then they killed Justin. I guess they thought they'd killed me too. Or they didn't care if I was alive or dead."

Sam got up from his couch and knelt in front of Juliane. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"What we just did to you. That must have triggered..." He touched the edge of the throw, stroked it like it was part of her skin that he could safely touch.

She watched his face intently. "Something happened to you too."

He looked up, surprised.

She smiled wryly. "I know the look."

He took a deep breath and nodded.

"Bad?"

"My father tortured and killed a kid that he thought was a demon sympathizer. For information. And his dad kidnapped me and tortured me for revenge." Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean, face lit with reverence. "He came for me. Got me out. Killed every one of them."

Juliane examined Dean with new respect. "Maybe I do like you after all."

She looked back down at Sam. "How long?"

"Three days."

She winced. "Whoa." Then she reached out her hand and placed on Sam's shoulder.

He raised his hand, slowly, wordlessly asking permission. She nodded. He placed his hand over hers.

The touch of his hand brought fresh tears to her eyes.

"When did this happen?"

Sam calculated the number of days and told her.

"You aren't sleeping, are you."

Sam dropped his head.

"I knew it," Dean muttered.

"I can't. Every time I fall asleep…"

"Flashbacks."

He squeezed her hand.

"That happened to me too." She smiled. "I can make them stop. If you want me to help you."

Sam's mouth fell open. "You can?"

"I can."

"You would? I mean… after…"

"That's the whole point of all this." She looked around. "Help people like I was helped. Keep them safe like…" She fell silent.

"Like no one was able to keep you safe," Dean completed the sentence.

She nodded, brushing the hair out of her eyes. "So…do you want sanctuary?"

"Yes." Sam and Dean spoke in unison.

"Ok. But you two owe me for today's little stunt."

Dean stood. "I'll make it up to you. That's a promise."

Juliane tilted her head with a little laugh. "I believe you." She looked down at Sam. "Your boyfriend is kinda cute, huh."

Sam rose to his feet and took hold of Dean's hand. "He's the most beautiful thing in the world."

Sam never knew that Dean could blush that particular shade of red.


	45. Lullaby

Danny helped Sam and Dean move their belongings into their new lodgings within the sanctuary. Dean, despite his bravado, was still weak and pale. He carried the bag containing their cash, and nothing else, and just that left him sweating and shaking. Sam and Danny carried the rest into their new space.

The sanctuary was built off the entry hallway Sam and Dean had gone through to enter the room Juliane was in. That room was a common room for everyone, with Juliane having a private bedroom. The large wooden door on the far wall led to another hallway, with doors on each side like an apartment building. Which it sort of was, as Danny explained it. "..used to work construction, so it wasn't that hard for us to build this." Apparently Danny and the other hunters ran a construction company as their day jobs, often doing custom work for savvy hunters. They had built in all kinds of protection and wards, only half of which Sam and Dean caught. Iron mesh attached to the studs, sheetrock coated with chunks of pure salt adhered to it with industrial glue, devils traps etched into the ceiling, a giant water tank filled with holy water attached to a sprinkler system that ran in each room of each apartment… it went on and on.

The gist of it was this: Nothing evil was getting in unless it cracked the earth underneath their feet.

Danny showed them around. "The TV's pretty new. We have cable, and we have kind of a huge library of videos. They're in the common room. And you got a small kitchen here. The stove works, but it takes a while to heat up. There are basic dishes and glasses and stuff to cook with. If you can cook. Microwave if you can't. I just plugged in the fridge for you. There's a grocery store up the road. I do a run every afternoon for people who can't go out—or don't want to." He turned and opened a door. "You have your own bathroom. It ain't much, and the tub's not huge, but the shower's got great water pressure and we have all the hot water you could ever need, so don't worry about taking a Navy shower."

Dean's face lit up. Dean loved a nice long hot shower. John usually had them stay in places with hardly any hot water, so they often had to take a Navy shower, turning the water off after they got wet, shivering as they soaped up their hair and body, only turning the water back on to rinse. And all too often, that water was cold from start to finish when Dad hadn't paid the bill, or when they were squatting in an abandoned house.

Danny continued. "We have a laundry room at the far end of the hall. It's not coin-op, and we supply Tide and dryer sheets." Danny opened another door. "Here's the bedroom. Linens are fresh. We turn them once a week, whether or not someone's staying." Danny patted the king-sized bed. "We figured you two wanted a single bed. Right?"

Sam nodded, a grin spreading across his exhausted face. "Right." He loved not having to hide their relationship, although the strain of keeping up with their fake names was wearing on him in his weakened, sleep-deprived state.

Dean collapsed face first on the bed. "Mprhud," he muttered.

"Tired," Sam translated.

"You two get settled. Juliane'll be by in a bit to work with you, Paul."

Sam blinked, momentarily confused.

"So you can sleep?"

"Oh. Right. Ok."

Danny headed toward their door. "Oh, I forgot. You've got neighbors in three of the apartments in here. We let people introduce themselves, or not. Depending on their mood. And health." Sam and Dean nodded, understanding. "If you want to go on lockdown, we'll escort you to the common room if you need to go out, and make sure everyone else stays put until you're through."

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "You go all out."

"Folks come here for all kinds of reasons. When we say we protect you and your privacy, that's absolute. Juliane insists on that. And whatever you tell her stays with her. She doesn't even tell me." Danny ran his hand through his hair. The gesture struck Sam as slightly rueful.

"I'll leave you to it. Juliane will call you in a little bit, when she's ready to come over." Danny gestured to the phone on the side table next to the simple but comfortable looking couch in the living room.

Sam shook Danny's hand. "Thanks, man. We really appreciate it."

Danny smiled, and left.

Dean rolled onto his back, stretching out, then pulled Sam down onto the bed. "Down."

"Not a dog, Dean." Sam ruffled Dean's short hair playfully.

"Mmm. No. Puppydog." Dean blinked blearily.

"You need some more cold stuff, huh."

Dean smacked his lips.

"That's a yes." Sam fished out the bottle of red liquid and went to pour Dean a shot in the plastic dispenser cup. Dean cocked his head, fixing Sam with a glance that clearly meant, "Really?", took the bottle and swigged from it.

"Classy."

Dean burped. "You know it."

Sam ran the tap in the kitchen and got Dean a glass of cool water. Dean accepted it gratefully, and fell back on the bed.

"You rest. I'll put our stuff away, ok?"

Dean plucked at Sam's shirtsleeve. "Stay."

"Again. Not a dog."

"Bitch." Dean's grin was infectious.

"Jerk." Sam stroked Dean's chest.

Sam stayed by Dean's side until he fell into a fitful sleep, then quietly moved around the room putting their clothes into the dresser.

Dean awoke to the sound of the phone ringing. Sam started, having drifted into yet another microsleep standing up. It was Juliane, saying she could come work with Sam if it was a good time.

Sam opened the door. "Come in." Juliane held a large fabric bag in her hands, which she set down on the kitchen counter. The first thing she did was fill the tea kettle with water and set it to boil. She removed a lump of herbs, a tape player and a large set of headphones from the bag.

"Sit."

Sam sat at the round table in the kitchen. Dean emerged, rubbing his eyes and padding barefoot across the carpet. "Is it ok if I sit in on this?"

Juliane smiled. "I was expecting you would." Dean took a seat.

"What I'm going to teach you to do is how to control your dreams. Tomorrow, I'm going to show Gene how to work with you on stopping the daytime flashbacks, but tonight, we're going to get you some sleep."

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, the brief flare of hope too much to bear.

"The technique is called lucid dreaming. It means being completely aware that you are dreaming, but staying in the dream and controlling it. The first thing you have to do is practice making reality checks. Things that tell you when you're awake or dreaming. Look at the pages of a book or a newspaper, look away and then look back to see if the words have changed. Look at your hands. In your dreams, your hands often look strange, or don't have the right number of fingers. Ask yourself 'Am I dreaming?'"

Sam nodded. The teakettle whistled, and Juliane took down a teapot and three mugs. She put the herbs into the teapot and poured hot water over the top. "This will help you get to sleep. It's good for anxiety too. I drink it every night."

She sat at the table while the tea steeped. "After you drink your tea and you're ready to go to bed, practice a few reality checks, then tell yourself, "I am going to lucid dream tonight. Say this over and over in your mind. You say that when you fall asleep, you relive…what happened to you?"

The haunted look in Sam's eyes was answer enough.

"Ok, so you're going to tell yourself that when you fall asleep and start to dream you're back in that place, with the people who hurt you, you're going to take control." She rose and poured the tea, strongly scented but not unpleasant, into the three mugs. "If you were totally awake and all powerful, what would you do in that situation?"

Sam thought of various scenarios—burning them, hacking their heads off—but the face of his father, standing in for Spivey, was too much. "I'd make them dissolve into nothing and drift away like smoke."

Dean's eyebrows raised.

"Good. That's very good." Juliane slid a mug of steaming tea in front of Sam. "Picture that in your mind clearly, as vivid as you can. Tell yourself if that dream happens, you're going to tell them 'You have no power over me' and wave your hand, and make them dissolve into smoke and drift away." She set down a mug in front of Dean. "And you. No whining. Drink the damn tea. You can have your manly black coffee and burned bacon tomorrow."

Dean stared at Sam and mouthed silently, "How does she know?"

Juliane slid the tape recorder to the center of the table. "When you're ready to go to sleep, put on the headphones and press play." She pressed the button. An odd buzzing sound played with a rhythmic pulse running through it. "Theta binaural beats. Your brain wave frequency moves towards the Theta. That puts you into a state receptive to lucid dreaming, and helps prevent anxiety. Both of which, you need."

She sipped her tea. "Drink. Both of you."

Sam and Dean took a tentative swallow. Dean pursed his lips. "Not bad. For herbal tea."

Juliane and Sam looked at each other, exchanging an amused glance.

Dean wasn't sure he liked that.

Juliane pressed Stop, and rewound to the beginning. "There's sixty minutes on that side. That should be enough to get you dreaming lucidly. Most people take a few weeks to learn how to lucid dream, but with your psychic ability, I think you'll pick it up really quickly."

Sam sat up. "You said that before. My…psychic ability?"

Juliane looked surprised. "Yes. How you found me. It was clear you didn't come here deliberately, so you didn't hear about us from someone else. That means you sensed the beacon."

Sam took a giant swallow of tea. "I'm not psychic."

Juliane laid her fingers over Sam's hand. "Oh yes, you are." Sam's eyes went wide. Dean's eyes went wider. "It's new. Just starting to develop. But I can feel it."

"Psychic?" Dean repeated.

"Don't be so disbelieving. With everything that's out there that you've seen, you don't believe in psychic abilities?"

"Quacks and spoon benders." Dean's skepticism was palpable.

"People pretending to be vampires and werewolves and even demons. The fakers don't make the real ones any less real, do they, Gene?"

Dean looked down, conceding the point.

"It's called hiding in plain sight. If everybody knew psychic powers were real, the world would fall apart, just like it would if they knew the creatures you hunt were real. That demons were real. Humans as a collective are panicked, frantic things. That's why they can't know. They aren't ready."

She turned her attention to Sam. "It's nothing to be afraid of. You will probably just sense things. The right way to go. Where something is hidden. The truth behind the lie. Maybe there will be more, but you won't know until it…well, ripens."

Sam sat back in his chair.

"Don't worry. You're a good person. That just spills out of you. It's going to be fine."

They finished their tea, and Juliane stood to leave. "Gene, I recommend you get a nap in. I need you to watch over him while he does this. It's possible that the memory of his trauma is still too fresh, and he won't be able to successfully take control of his dream the first time. I want you to be there for him. Wake him up if he is in distress."

"That's what I've been doing."

The way Juliane looked at Dean combined a sort of surprised affection and acute sorrow. "Lucky Paul." She looked around the room. "One more thing. You should find some kind of object you can hold in your hand that makes you feel safe."

Sam glanced at the amulet around Dean's neck.

"Keep it in your hand as you fall asleep. If things go south, grip it tight. It will help. Trust me."

Juliane poured Sam a second mug of tea. "Drink it all if you can. And repeat back to me the steps." Sam recited them back perfectly. She exhaled with relief. "Good. You'll be fine."

She rose to leave, and turned toward Dean. "You stay awake for him, ok? He needs to know you're awake and watching over him."

"Been watching over him…" Dean almost said 'his whole life' and stopped himself. "…the whole time we've been together."

"I believe you. But tonight, it's important."

She took her bag and walked to the door. "Good luck. Come find me tomorrow morning."

Sam took her hand. She let him.

"Thank you. I mean, for trying. I don't know…"

"You'll do it perfectly." She gave his hand a little squeeze, and left.

Sam finished his tea. Dean had already napped, so he was ready. Sam practiced making sure what was real by pushing his hand on the table, leaning against walls, and pinching his arm. Then they brushed their teeth, bumping against each other playfully, and climbed into bed. Sam sat cross-legged, mentally repeating what Juliane had told him.

"Hey. This is gonna work. You're gonna sleep like a baby."

Sam turned to look at Dean. His face looked worse than when he'd first been brought home, skin shiny-thin and ashen, huge circles under his eyes. His fatigue made him look ill. "I hope so."

"Want me to sing you a lullaby?" Dean smoothed Sam's hair back.

"You would. Wouldn't you."

"Done it before."

Sam stared at Dean in disbelief, which slowly faded to recognition. "Beth."

Dean looked down as if embarrassed, eyelashes dark and heavy against his skin, then back up at Sam.

"You used to sing me 'Beth'."

"You loved that song."

"I remember now. You sang it to me when Dad was gone and I couldn't sleep."

"But never the last verse. That shit's depressing."

Sam looked up at Dean like he was desperately searching for the words to express everything welling up inside him, and failing. "I… Dean." He paused. "I want your mark on me."

Dean's mouth fell open.

"Forever mark. You said you would. Did you mean it?"

Dean gave Sam the kind of smile that tried to camouflage the enormity of the emotion slamming through him through his special brand of Dean Winchester charm. "Did you? You really want to..."

"Mark you? Dean." Sam shivered. "Yeah. Yes."

"But first…you gotta get some sleep. You can do that for me?"

Sam put his hand on Dean's cheek, rubbed his thumb along his jaw in that way that made Dean get all emotional and teary. "Anything. For you." And then Sam's mouth was on Dean's, gentle and warm and everything Dean had ever wanted. For him.

Dean got Sam nestled in bed with the headphones on, pressed play and adjusted the volume, and turned out the lights.

He settled in next to Sam under the blankets.

Sam pulled the headphones off with a sharp motion. "Dean."

Dean stroked Sam's stomach like he did when Sam was little and had a tummy ache, small circular movements directly on his skin, under his t-shirt. "S'ok."

"I'm scared."

"S'ok," Dean repeated. "You're going to control your dream. And if anything is in it you don't like, what are you going to do?"

Sam took a deep breath and let it out. "Make it dissolve and drift away like smoke."

"Yeah." Dean snugged the headphones back over Sam's ears, and kissed him, soft and sweet. He lay down and rubbed Sam's stomach again. Sam turned on his side and gripped the amulet in his right hand. The sound pulsed in his ears, buzzing, pulling at his head in a not-unpleasant way…and before he knew it, Sam had drifted off to sleep.

Sure enough, as soon as his consciousness left this world, it flung him instantly back into that place. The warehouse. The restraints biting into his bleeding wrists. The man walking toward him, hate in his eyes, cattle prod in his hand. Wearing his father's face. Speaking with his father's voice.

Sam panicked, thrashed in the restraints, head arched up. His hands twisted in the fetters, fingers contorted.

Sam counted four fingers on his right hand. "I'm dreaming," he whispered. He looked his tormentor straight in the eyes. "I'm dreaming. And I'm in control."

John's face shivered and ran like butter melting off a stack of pancakes. Spivey's face emerged from beneath.

Sam tightened his fingers, hard, harder, feeling the sharp bite of the horns of Dean's amulet digging into the palm of his hand. "I control my dreams. You can't hurt me anymore. You can't have me anymore. I got out. Dean got me out. It's over. You're nothing. Just…smoke."

Spivey's mouth opened in disbelief, and it too melted away. His entire body dissolved. The walls shimmered like asphalt in summer, and dissolved into smoke.

Sam stood in the center of an open field, sunlight streaming over him, thick green grass soft and springy beneath his feet. A cool breeze washed over him, rustling through his hair. He fell to his knees, laughing with the joy of his triumph. He dug his fingers into the grass. The herbal scent of the blades beneath his hands was sharp, so real he could feel the odor physically tickle his nostrils like when the high school field was mowed. He tumbled over onto his back in the soft, yielding mat of grass, feeling the warmth of the sun pouring down over him, love and safety and peace seeping into his body, loosening the fear that had kept him prisoner, dissolving the darkness inside him into black smoke that rose into the air in a serpentine coil, and vanished in the warmth and the light.

Dean watched Sammy's face, fear welling up as Sam's brow furrowed, panic clearly painted on his features, twitching like a dog in a dream… then subsiding as Sam clenched the amulet, still around Dean's neck, and then his face softened, a smile spreading over his face. His nostrils flared like he smelled something good, and then Sam's hand relaxed. Sam's entire body relaxed so completely that Dean realized how tense he'd actually been this whole time. Sam relaxed like he was safe, and loved, and that he knew it down to his bones.

Dean pulled off the headphones, steadied Sam in his arms, watching the soft expression of his face in utter wonder, listening to his steady, peaceful breathing.

Dean held Sam close, and Sam slept.


	46. Wake Up Little Sammy

Sam slept.

He slept all night. When morning came, Sam kept sleeping. Dean awoke, neck stiff from being in the same position all night, holding Sam in his arms. Sam remained peacefully asleep. Dean stayed in bed as long as he could stand the ever-increasing pressure in his bladder until the discomfort edged over into actual pain. "Sorry, Sammy," he whispered, kissing his forehead softly. "You keep sleeping." He rose to use the bathroom, and Sam turned onto his stomach, burying his face into Dean's pillow, murmuring a soft, happy sound.

Sam slept through the rich odor of coffee being brewed (Juliane had thoughtfully stocked the kitchen with everything required to make coffee, as well as a few types of cereal and milk). Dean fixed himself a bowl of cereal and a mug of strong coffee, and let Sam sleep.

Dean checked on Sam after breakfast. Still deep in sleep. Dean brushed Sam's hair off his forehead. "I'll be in the other room." Dean ate a second bowl of cereal on the couch in front of the TV, turned down low so as not to wake Sam.

Sam slept until mid-afternoon. He came stumbling out of the bedroom, rubbing his eyes just like a little boy. "Dean?"

Dean turned off the TV. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty."

Sam yawned. "How long was I out?"

Dean checked his watch, which read 1:54 pm. "Almost 15 hours." He went to Sam, peered at his face, put his hand on his shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

"Groggy. But…I never slept that good. Ever."

Dean blew out a sign of relief. "Awesome." He walked into the kitchen and put the glass carafe of coffee into the microwave to warm it up. "Go brush your teeth. I'll make you breakfast."

Sam used the bathroom while Dean busied himself making Sam coffee with lots of milk and sugar, and a bowl of cereal.

Sam sat at the table, and breathed in the scent of the hot coffee. "You. Are the best."

"I know." Dean smirked. Sam drank most of the cup in one go, and Dean made him a second cup.

"So. What was it like?"

"The lucid dreaming thing?"

Dean nodded.

Sam told him about how it started off just like every other time he'd fallen asleep since he learned what John had done, and how his hands looked different, and that's how he knew he was dreaming. He told him about taking control, making everything dissolve into smoke, how he was then standing in a grassy field in the sunlight. "It felt… just. So good. So powerful. You have to try it."

After Sam finished his cereal, Dean shot him a look. "Wanna get cleaned up? We can grab a shower." Sam blinked gratefully.

In the bathroom, Dean stripped off his clothes and started the shower, holding his arm in the spray until he got the temperature just right. Sam shed his clothes too, staring at Dean the whole time, unable to take his eyes off him.

Dean smiled, a bit shyly but basking in the attention.

"You're…just. I could just look at you."

Dean stepped into the shower and held his hand out for Sam. Sam stretched out his arm, twined his fingers in Dean's, eyes on Dean the whole time.

"Come on. Warmer in here." Dean tugged oh-so-gently.

Sam stepped into the shower.

Dean blushed. "Sam. You keep staring at me."

"Because you're beautiful."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You're biased."

Sam didn't step any closer, just looked at Dean. "Yeah. But you're still beautiful."

Dean tried to deflect again, the wealth of Sam's attention making him squirm. "Guys aren't beautiful. They're handsome or hot or good looking."

Sam's gaze traveled down Dean's body slowly, watching the way the water poured over his skin, all the way down to his toes, and back up, finally meeting Dean's gaze. "I said you're beautiful." His voice was soft, a near whisper. "You calling me a liar?"

Dean blushed harder. "So… you looking to see where you want to mark me?"

Sam bit his lip, and stepped closer. "Maybe." He raised his hand and let his fingers brush against the skin over Dean's heart.

Dean shivered. "There?"

Sam lightly touched the patch of flesh just below Dean's right hipbone. "Or here. No one would see it unless you were naked. Or maybe…"Lifting his hand, Sam placed his fingertips on Dean's forehead.

Dean snorted. "You wish."

"I do." Sam leaned closer, flinching as the water spattered his face, but pushing through it to bring his mouth to Dean's neck. "Right where everyone could see it." He kissed the sensitive spot right below Dean's ear. "I hate having to hide."

Dean gave him a look full of love and regret. "Me too." He inhaled sharply. "Someday… Sam. Someday, we'll get married and we'll move someplace where no one knows us. And then we'll have the same last name because we're together. Not because…" He left the rest unspoken.

Sam's face lit up. "Really?" The water on his cheeks wasn't just spray from the shower. "We… we could have that?" Sam trembled with the enormity of what Dean was offering. Not just being together, not just being secretly "married." But of having a real life together.

"Yeah. But Sam… it may take a while. For the last part. I mean, Dad and Bobby. As long as they're alive, we can't…"

Sam swallowed. The last thing in the world either of them wanted was for their dad or Bobby to know the truth about them. "I know. I know that. But…end game?"

Dean took Sam's hand and kissed it. It felt like a sacred promise. "End game."

Sam eyed Dean again, with greater intensity. "Are you feeling better? I mean, enough to… can I?"

Dean turned Sam, pushed him gently up against the tile wall of the shower. "Thought you'd never ask." He pushed his hips forward, rubbing his fully erect cock against Sam's. "Need you, baby boy." He brought his lips to Sam's neck. "Need you so bad."

Sam moaned, tipping his head back away from the spray, giving Dean access. Dean licked and nipped at Sam's skin, hands caressing Sam's flanks. Then he took the bottle of conditioner and squirted some into his hand. He blocked the shower with his body so it wouldn't run down Sam's stomach and wash the slippery substance away, and stroked it over Sam's cock slowly.

Sam's mouth fell open with a groan. He reached for Dean's cock, but Dean stopped him with a shake of his head. "Uh-uh, sweetheart. You like looking at me, right? Well, I want to look at you." Sam gasped. "So beautiful when you come for me. You gonna come for me?" Dean stroked Sam's cock with both hands now, working one hand over the head in circles, the fingers of the other fluttering on the underside of the shaft, caressing him softly.

Sam nodded, pink cheeks flushing a deeper color. "If you do, I'll let you do it to me. Make me come while you watch." Sam shuddered at that, pressed his hands flat against the tile, jutting his hips forward, face totally open, letting Dean watch him, watch the pleasure build, watching his expressions change.

"You're right, Sammy. You're totally fucking right. Men can be beautiful." Dean didn't work Sam's cock hard or rough. He caressed him, lavished attention on him, tugged Sam's balls gently and rolled them between his fingers, watching the pleasure of it spread over Sam's face. "You're beautiful. Your face. Your body. And your cock. Christ, Sammy. So fucking beautiful." The expression on Dean's face made Sam shiver. "Perfect. You're perfect, Sammy. I can't believe you're mine." Sam moaned and writhed, the pleasure about to crest. Dean watched him, biting his lip to resist rubbing against Sam's wet thigh. He promised Sam he'd let him do the same thing to him, and Dean Winchester kept his promises. He pumped his fist up and down the middle third of Sam's cock, index finger stroking the spot where the shaft met the head on every upstroke. "Gonna mark you, baby boy."

Sam cried out, loud and sharp, come spattering against Dean's belly, and again, even louder, as the peak of his orgasm seized him. Dean worked all the come out of Sam's cock, squeezing it out of him. "Mine. Mine."

After his shudders and little sounds stopped, Dean wouldn't let Sam return the favor yet. He soaped him up and washed him from head to toe, and Sam gave himself over to Dean and let him. He quickly soaped up, allowing Sam to help, but when he reached for Dean's cock, Dean kissed him and said, "Got a better idea. Let's get you out of this water first." Even with the attention Dean paid to Sam in the running water, he could see Sam fighting to beat back the panic and anxiety. Making Sam come in the shower distracted him, gave him good associations with water, but Dean was exquisitely sensitive to Sam's emotional state.

He rinsed quickly and turned off the shower. They toweled each other dry clumsily but thoroughly.

"What's your idea?"

Dean's grin somehow melded wickedness and pure trust. "You like to look at me?"

Sam nodded, wet hair flying in his eyes. He pushed it back.

"Come on. I'll give you something to look at."

Dean padded naked down the hallway and rummaged in his now-empty duffel. "Where's the lube?"

Sam pointed. "End table drawer." Sam had put it away in the place it belonged. Dean took the lube, grabbed Sam by the hand and let him to the living room. He handed Sam the lube and sat back on the couch, spreading his thighs wide open. He ran his hand down his chest. "All yours, Sammy."

Sam's eyes widened. Then he knelt in front of Dean and drizzled lube on his hands. He slicked up Dean's cock. Dean groaned, parting his legs wider, letting Sam see everything. "Sam… you, uh, you like this?"

Sam heard the insecurity in Dean's voice, and kissed the inside of his thigh. "You have no idea." He worked his hand on Dean's cock, eyes moving over Dean's body, up to his face, back down, drinking it all in. Dean leaned back and fucked up into Sam's fist.

"Dean. You like this?"

Dean chewed on his lower lip, and brought his right foot up onto the couch, opening himself wider to Sam's gaze. "Yeah. A lot."

Sam poured more lube on his fingers, and wrapped his right hand around Dean's cock again… and circled the index finger of his left hand on Dean's hole.

Dean moaned.

Sam slipped the tip of his finger inside, still stroking Dean, watching him. Dean arched his back and drove himself down on Sam's finger.

"You like that too?" Sam whispered. Making sure.

Dean's face softened. "Sam. I love it." He brought his other foot up onto the couch, scooted forward, spreading himself wide open for Sam, hiding nothing.

Sam worked his whole finger inside Dean, then a second. Dean made little cries like they were being punched out of him, guttural cries of intense pleasure. "Oh god. Like that. Yeah."

Sam looked up at Dean, face flushed with love and desire. "Are you going to come for me, Dean?"

"Yeah. Oh fuck. Sammy. Sam. Sam." As Dean gasped and bucked and fucked himself on Sam's fist and fingers, Sam kissed Dean's inner thigh, worked his fingers inside Dean a little faster, squeezed his cock a little tighter and uttered, "Mine."

The pleasure cresting in Dean doubled. He rode out his orgasm on Sam's strong hands, shaking, chanting Sam's name, great jets of come spattering his belly, chest and the underside of his chin.

He was still shivering with aftershocks when Sam released him and drew his tongue over a thick white line of come on Dean's stomach. He closed his eyes and moaned.

"Fuck. Sammy." Sam looked up at Dean, hazel eyes fever-bright, and licked Dean clean.

He licked and sucked along Dean's jaw, and Dean turned his head and claimed Sam's mouth in a kiss. After a long moment, Sam pulled away. "That was…so good."

Dean laughed. "Yeah it was."

"But there's one problem." Dean's brow furrowed with concern. Sam sat up, took Dean's hand and brought it between his legs, placing it on Sam's raging erection. "If we go one at a time, we're gonna end up doing this all day."

Dean made a low, hungry sound and grinned, white teeth gleaming. "So what's the problem?"


	47. Cat's in the Cradle

Bobby rubbed his eyes and hung up the phone. Another notebook filled with leads on Azazel and possible reasons he'd taken a chillingly personal interest in Sam Winchester. Nothing concrete or actionable.

He hadn't seen John in hours, since he'd pushed him bodily out of the library and commanded him to get some sleep. "You're no good to anyone half-dead from not taking care of yourself. Get some shut-eye. I'll wake you if I hear anything."

"Or if Sam calls." John's eyes were bloodshot.

"Or if Sam calls." Bobby let his voice drop into the calm and soothing tone he used for abused strays and snot-nosed children.

Bobby poured two fingers of Gentleman Jack into a tumbler and walked slowly up the stairs favoring his right knee. He cracked John's door open. He wasn't inside.

Bobby dropped his head forward, closing his eyes, then turned and walked to the boys' room

John sat on the bed leaning against the wall, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a wooden plaque in the other. Dean's football lay next to his hip.

"That doesn't exactly look like sleeping to me," Bobby muttered.

John closed his eyes for a moment and took another deep pull on the whiskey bottle. He breathed out, long and slow. "I was looking for photos of them. You know… just. I wanted to see them. But there aren't any. A few of when they were little. I guess I never took pictures of them."

Bobby adjusted his baseball cap. "I've got some in the den. I'll get 'em for you."

John looked around the room at the possessions Sam and Dean had left behind. "Mary was always the one who took the photos. I guess I never… picked that up from her."

"I took plenty when you'd drop 'em off with me."

John winced. He looked down at the plaque in his hand. "Sam used to do these… acting competitions."

Bobby sighed and finished the whiskey in his glass in one gulp. "If you're telling stories, I'm sitting down." He pulled a chair up next to the bed, and extended his tumbler. John filled it halfway, hand moving clumsily, spilling some on the comforter.

"The kids would do scenes from plays and monologues. It was a big deal. You know?" John looked at Bobby. "All the high schools in the region competed. They'd drive there from all over. Stay overnight. The whole nine yards." John traced the lettering on the front of the plaque. "Sam's drama teacher invited him to go. He said he was going to do a monologue from Taps."

"That one about the military boarding school?"

"George C. Scott. Yeah."

"I love that movie."

John took another drink. "He memorized the one where Tim Hutton is talking to his friend. After the little boy got shot. Used to hear him practicing it when he thought we couldn't hear him." _Sam in the garage, saying his lines: Were they just words? Honor, duty, country? I loved that man. Being in his presence made me feel privileged. But there had to be something missing in all that he taught us, or this wouldn't have happened._

Bobby just sipped the whiskey and let John talk.

"I gave him shit for it. 'You don't have time for that crap, Sam. You need to practice field stripping your weapon. Need to spar with your brother. Need to get your run in.' I told him he couldn't spare the time for something frivolous like that." He shook his head. "I was always so hard on him."

"Yeah. You were." Bobby's voice wasn't barbed with blame, intended to wound, but he didn't lie to John. And that was the thing John valued most about Bobby. That and his dogged loyalty.

"He kept practicing, though." John gave a little laugh. "So much like me. Stubborn to a fault."

_Sam in the folding camping chair, sorrow etched on his face, sorrow that should have been far outside his comprehension at that young age, as he practiced the monologue: When I knelt next to Charlie, I tried to find some justification. But honor doesn't count for shit when you're looking at a dead little boy._

"He snuck out, went to the competition anyway. I freaked out. Gave Dean holy hell for letting him go." John's face crumpled. "I was going to drive down there and drag his ass home, but Dean…" John rubbed his mouth. "Dean begged me. To let Sam have this one thing." _Dad, he's really good at acting. I mean, __really__ good. And it means so much, please, Dad, let him do this._

Bobby had to turn his face away.

"And when Sam came home, he was so proud. 'Dad. I won!' He had this plaque." John traced the words on the front. "Outstanding Achievement in Acting—Monologue: Sam Winchester." John's voice cracked. "And I… he showed it to me, and I said, 'While you were off play-acting, I cleared out a vamp's nest. Saved a woman and her daughter. And I didn't need an award for doing it."

_Sam's face, so proud and happy, crumbling under the weight of the shame and disappointment and bitter anger. Dean's face falling, the adoration of his father the hunter visibly eroded by his cruelty to his Sammy. Sam pelting up the stairs, Dean following behind slowly. _

John took another deep pull at the bottle, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, rocking in place. "Bobby. I've lost my boys."

Bobby shook his head. "You haven't lost them."

John's eyes flew open. His expression was anguished. "They hate me. I saw that in Sam's face. He couldn't stand to even look at me. And Dean too. He tried to hide it. But he hates me too. And…they're right to."

"John—"

"No. It's the truth." John looked down at the football. "Even before the… before. I was a terrible father. I just thought… there was so much more important work to do. I had to find the thing that killed my Mary. Had to kill the monsters. I'd go to their football games and plays and all that later. It just seemed so unimportant compared to the job. What we do. Who we are." He traced the tips of his fingers over the seam of the football. "But none of that matters without my boys." And suddenly John crumpled, as though whatever was holding him together was slashed away. Bobby managed to grab the whiskey bottle before it spilled all over the bed, and set it on the end table. John curled up on his side, clutching the football and the plaque, and simply broke down.

Bobby sat next to him, and put his hand awkwardly on John's head. "There, there." John gasped and sobbed in a full-on whiskey-fueled crying jag. Bobby stroked John's hair. "Get it out. There you go."

John cried like a man who had lost everything he ever loved. When he had cried himself dry, Bobby went to the bathroom and came back with a glass of water, a wet washcloth and a wad of toilet paper. "Blow your nose." He shoved the paper at John. John obeyed. "Wipe your face." John took the wet washcloth and wiped his eyes and face with it. Bobby gave him the glass of water and he drank it down. "Thank you," he whispered. He looked at Bobby like he was his last hope. "I have to get them back. How can I get them back?"

Bobby saw the earnestness in John's face, the resolve, the agony of his love for his sons whose love for him he'd so badly damaged. "The first thing you have to do is climb out of that whiskey bottle."

John's eyes went wide.

"You want to be a better father? A better man? Prove to them you deserve another chance? Quit drinking." Bobby leaned forward. "It's been a hell of a long time since Sam and Dean saw you sober on a regular basis."

John let his head drop forward, the truth of it, the shame of it too great to bear. "You're right." He pulled himself up to a seated position. _Sam, not knowing that John was watching him from the partly open door with tears in his eyes, delivering his monologue to the empty air: You don't think of the Book of Remembrance or bugles or flags or gun salutes. All you think about…is what a neat little kid he was…and how you're gonna miss him._

"I'll do it. For them." _For Sam._

Bobby's face creased into a giant smile—then the smile faltered.

"What? You…you don't think I can?" John looked stricken.

"No, that ain't it. I just realized that means I gotta quit drinking too." Bobby looked at the bottle of whiskey mournfully. "Balls."


	48. Silent Night

Dean lay on his side, nose smashed into his pillow. Sam was curled up around him, top leg thrown over him like the bossy puppy of the litter that always has to be on the top of the pile. Their breathing, peaceful and slow, was perfectly synchronized.

Suddenly Dean made a loud snore.

"What?" Sam roused, blinking blearily.

Dean rolled onto his back as Sam sat up. When he saw Sam, he grinned.

"Nice sex hair."

"Shut up." Sam ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back. "'S your fault, anyway."

Dean's grin widened. "I could mess it up some more."

Sam slapped Dean's hand lightly as it wormed its way under the sheets. "Dean. There's no fluid left in my body."

Dean crossed his arms behind his head with an eminently satisfied smirk and lay back, smacking his lips.

"Besides, I'm hungry. Aren't you hungry?"

Dean blinked, as if surprised to have realized something obvious. "Yeah. Starving."

They put clean clothes on, Dean hastily tugging on his jeans and t-shirt. Dean stepped close to Sam as he dressed, playfully unbuttoning his jeans after Sam fastened them, tugging at Sam's shirt after he pulled it over his head and trying to take it off again.

"Come on," Sam asked with a laugh. "After we get some food in us. You can keep me naked and at your mercy all night."

Dean's eyes darkened. "Promise?"

"Don't you get tired?" Sam shook his head in amused disbelief.

"Of you? Never."

Sam blushed, and Dean went in for a sneak attack on the sensitive patch of skin behind Sam's ear. Sam pushed Dean back, but kept his fingers wrapped in Dean's shirt."Food. In the stomach. Now."

"Ok, fine." Dean reluctantly let Sam dress and keep his clothes on.

Sam put his hand on Dean's forehead."How are you feeling?"

Dean said, "Nothing a shot of cold stuff won't fix." He took the bottle from the bedside table and swigged a generous dose.

Sam called Juliane. "Hey, um, it's Paul. We'd like to grab something to eat. Where's good around here?" He listened. "Sure. You said if we wanted, we could be on lockdown? Yeah. I think we'd like that." He listened some more. "Ok. Thanks."

He hung up the phone. "Danny's going to make sure the hall's clear, and bring us up."

Dean looked confused.

"Maybe one of the other hunters knows us. We don't know who's staying here."

Dean nodded, comprehension dawning. "Right. I forgot."

Sam burst out laughing.

"What?"

"I fucked you stupid."

"Did not." Dean's face pinked up.

"I always knew that was possible. But I never thought I'd see it."

Dean pushed his lower lip out slightly in the little pout he'd done ever since he was a little boy. "Don't call me stupid."

Sam moved in close and put his arm around Dean's waist like he was going to slow dance. "You're smart. Real smart." His lips were warm against Dean's neck. "Smarter than me. Did you know that?"

Dean snorted. "Ha ha. Dude. You're the smart one. I'm the most bad ass."

"I'm serious." Sam put two fingers under Dean's chin and tipped his face up to meet his gaze. "Dad always says 'Sam's the smart one, you're the tough one,' but that's because… I don't even know why. He has to keep us in these little boxes. But I know how smart you are."

Dean didn't sniffle. He didn't blink. But a single tear welled up in his eye and trickled down his cheek. Sam raised his hand and brushed the tear away with his thumb.

Dean traced his fingertips along Sam's left arm, still paler than the other one from being encased in the cast. "And I know how tough you are."

Sam's smile was that of a little boy staring up at the night sky in wonder, the blues and reds and greens of Fourth of July fireworks bursting in flashes across his face.

The moment was broken by a knock at the door. It was Danny, come to escort them to the common room.

The sound of a whistling teakettle greeted them as Juliane opened the door. Juliane took the kettle off the stove, and gestured toward the table, where she'd spread out take-out menus. "These are the places that are open tonight. But, you know, you could eat with us if you wanted to."

Sam and Dean looked up.

"Anyone in the sanctuary who wants to can eat dinner with us here. I'm not a great cook, but I can crack open a box or a jar with the best of them." Juliane poured hot water into a hammered silver teapot.

Danny flopped down on the couch and picked up his book. "She's being hard on herself again. She's a good cook."

Juliane rolled her eyes. "Anyway, I'm making spaghetti. You're welcome to stay."

Sam and Dean exchanged wary glances. Sam reached for Dean's hand under the table.

Juliane pretended not to have seen it. "Sounds like you want to keep to yourselves."

"Yeah, for now. But thank you for the offer." Sam's eyes were huge and earnest.

"But…I hope you'll join us tomorrow. I'm making something special. Roast beef and gravy and all the usual stuff."

Sam and Dean had identical quizzical expressions on their faces.

Juliana checked the contents of the teapot. "You know. For Christmas Day."

Sam and Dean stared at each other in shock, understanding dawning. "Tomorrow's Christmas," Dean said in a near-whisper.

"And tonight… it's…"

"Christmas Eve? It's Christmas Eve."

"Haven't you guys looked at a newspaper recently?" Danny peeked over at them over his book.

Dean's tone was brusque but not unfriendly. "We've been busy."

Sam's face changed, his expression showing something dark and haunted. "Yeah."

Juliane gracefully changed the subject. "Most of those places do take out or sit-down, whatever you prefer." The menus were typical fare, pizza and Chinese and American diner food. Sam and Dean looked through them.

"I'm so hungry I don't even care where—" Sam stopped. Beneath his fingers was a menu for Marie Callendar's. "Done." He held up the menu in front of Dean.

Dean's eyes went wide. "Is that the…" Dean's tongue swiped over his lower lip. "…the pie place?"

Sam's response was a peal of laughter. Then his face changed, a flash of something Dean couldn't read animating his features. "Hang on."

Sam pelted down the hallway hoping no one would open their door and see him, and went back into the bedroom. He opened the bag of cash, stopped for a second to make a rapid mental calculation, and pulled out some bills.

Within three minutes, he was back in the common room, and took Dean's hand. "Come on, baby. I'm taking you out to dinner." Dean looked pleased and embarrassed that Sam used that term of endearment.

Juliane gave them a concerned look. "Remember. It's safe in here. No guarantees once you go outside."

Dean unconsciously put his hand on the hilt of the knife Reggie gave him. "We'll be alright."

Danny told them how to get to the restaurant, which was a fairly involved set of directions. "But I'll draw you a map."

"That's ok. We got it." Sam buttoned up his heavy coat in preparation for the blast of cold once they hit the outside air.

"Seriously, it'll just take a second."

Dean shot Sam an amused look. "You want to? Or should I?"

Sam gave Dean a nod. "Go ahead." Sam watched with a proud expression on his face as Dean recited back the convoluted directions, word for word.

Danny shrugged. "You know, I'm man enough to admit when I'm impressed." He settled back down on the couch. "And I'm impressed."

Juliane buttoned up the top button of Sam's coat. "You two be safe."

Dean rolled carefully over the salt speed bump and pulled out onto the road. "What else do they have?"

Sam read to him from the menu he'd brought with him at Dean's insistence. "Chicken pot pie."

"Oh god."

"Mozzarella sticks. Country fried steak. Knife and fork chili burger."

Dean's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "It's like porn."

Sam ran his hand up Dean's thigh. "I haven't even started reading off the pie menu yet."

The car wavered slightly as Sam began reciting in a slightly husky voice, "Lemon meringue…pecan…chocolate satin…banana cream…"

"Keep going, Sammy."

"Coconut cream…blueberry…German chocolate…French apple…"

Behind them, car headlights flicked on as a dark sedan pulled out onto the road and followed them at a discreet distance.

The hostess, a tiny thing with dyed red hair, greeted them. "Two?" Sam gave her his best smile. "Yes, but could we have a really large table?" He stepped closer. "My legs are too long for the little tables and booths and stuff." She looked all the way up at him, tall and lean and lovely, and blushed, flustered under the heat of Sam Winchester's attention. "Of course. Absolutely. This way."

She brought them to a large round table with eight chairs around it. "Is this good?"

Sam sat down and stretched his legs out. "This is perfect. Thank you."

Dean sat down next to Sam, grabbed his menu and began poring over it. "I can't even choose. How can a man be expected to choose?"

Sam's mouth twitched slightly.

The hostess escorted a dark-haired man in a grey suit to a two-top across from them.

After a few minutes, the waitress came to their table. She looked a little confused, looking at all the empty seats and just the two of them. "Are you waiting for anyone else?"

"Nope." Sam's eyes glinted mischievously.

"Ok, are you ready to order or do you need some more time?"

Dean ran his finger down the menu. "I'd like the chicken pot pie, and a Coke, and-"

Sam interrupted Dean. "And a slice of every type of pie you have."

Both Dean and the waitress stared at Sam in shock.

Sam pulled the wad of bills out of his wallet, and handed the waitress two hundreds. "It's not a prank. I'll pay up front."

The waitress set her pad down and wiped her hands down the front of her apron. "But… we have over thirty types of pie."

Sam grinned. "Well, we're not planning to finish all of them. But my boyfriend loves pie. It's Christmas Eve. One of each, please."

The waitress shrugged. "Hope neither of you is diabetic." She scrawled PIE-ONE SLICE EACH-EVERY KIND on the bottom of the ticket and walked back to the kitchen.

Dean couldn't stop staring at Sam.

"Dean. You ok?"

He just stared.

"Use your words." Sam's smile was irrepressible.

"You love me." Dean's voice was hushed.

"Duh."

"No. You really love me."

"You're just getting this now."

Dean shook his head in awe. "You really love me," he repeated.

The waitress cruised back by with Dean's coke and two glasses of water. "You want the chicken pot pie first?"

"Oh yeah." Dean looked like he'd start eating the waitress if she didn't bring him some kind of pie immediately.

"And can I get a glass of milk?" Sam asked.

"Ooh." Dean looked up.

"Two? Two glasses of milk?" Sam amended his request.

"Sure thing."

The waitress returned with two tall glasses of milk, and a massive dish filled with crusty, bubbling chicken pot pie.

"Help me with this?" Dean shoved the dish toward Sam.

"Ok."

Dean punctured the top crust with his fork, steam escaping. "That smells so good."

They dug in, eating gingerly at first, careful not to burn their mouths. Sam blew on a huge spoonful to cool it off.

"Mmph," Dean said.

"Mmm hmm," Sam agreed.

"You mind?" Dean gestured toward the pie.

Sam laughed. "Go for it." Dean took the back of his spoon and smashed the crust down into the rich gravy, letting it soak it up.

Within minutes, the chicken pot pie had vanished and Dean's Coke was just a thin layer of brown liquid at the bottom of a glass of ice.

The waitress approached with a giant round tray and a folding stand. Opening the stand, she lowered the tray down. One by one, she set the slices of pie on the table. "Razzleberry. Strawberry. Peach. Pumpkin. Rhubarb. Coconut cream. Chocolate cream. Kahlua cream cheese. Pecan…" Dean stared at the array of pie spread out before him.

"You two get started. I'll be back with the rest."

Sam peered at Dean. "Dean. You crying?"

"Damn straight." Dean shook his head in disbelief. "This is beautiful." He gazed at Sam, wet eyes gone dark hunter-green. "Anything you want, Sammy. For, like, ever. Or at least a week."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Anything?"

Dean dug his fork into the pumpkin pie and took a bite. His moan was positively sexual. "Yeah. Anything."

Sam leaned in and whispered something to Dean.

Dean froze, fork still in his mouth. He blinked once, slowly. "Hell yeah." He lowered the fork to the table. "Hell yeah."

Sam's cheeks went red, not in a flush of embarrassment, but in another physical reaction altogether. He slid the cherry cheesecake to the side of the table with a quiet smile, then stabbed his fork into the slice of strawberry pie and brought it to Dean's mouth.

Dean opened his mouth and let Sam feed him. A bit of whipped cream lodged on Dean's upper lip and before he could lick it off, Sam's mouth was on him, his tongue lifting the dollop of cream off and pushing it into Dean's mouth.

Across from them, the man in the grey suit sat up straight.

Sam licked the taste of strawberry and cream from Dean's mouth, then pulled back reluctantly. Dean made a faint whimper of protest.

"Hey, I don't want to get us kicked out. There's like 30 more types of pie to try."

The waitress returned with the large tray laden with more types of pie. "OK, this is the regular apple, this is the French apple, this is the Sour Cream apple…" And she had to return a third time for the last ten types of pie. Soon the huge table was jam-packed with wedges of pie. People seated around them stared in disbelief at the two young men having a Christmas Eve pie feast. The kids elbowed each other, a new dream born within them, to pester their parents relentlessly about until they cracked, and took the children back to Marie Callender's for a One Each pie extravaganza.

Dean sampled a single forkful of each type of pie before he went back for a second taste. "Gotta give each one an equal chance," he said. The regular apple and the banana cream were his favorites. Sam had one bite of each, and as delicious as they were, he let Dean finish those all by himself. Sam liked the lemon meringue best, which Dean also declared "friggin' awesome," but he let Sam eat most of that. Neither of them cared much for the blueberry pie, oddly enough. The cream cheese pies and cheesecakes were so rich that they could only eat little slivers of each one.

As the fat and sugar high swept over them, they became more animated, laughing and feeding each other off their forks, wiping smears of sticky syrupy peach juice from the corner of the other's mouth and sucking it off their fingers, sneaking a quick kiss when they thought no one was looking.

Finally they sat back with a groan, and dropped their forks to the table with a ringing sound.

"You boys done?" The waitress stood before them.

Dean's mouth curled into a smile. "Darlin', we're just getting warmed up."

Sam leaned forward. "Could we get two cups of coffee please?"

The waitress unsuccessfully tried to fight back a grin. "You two are nuts."

The coffee seemed to have melted the pie already eaten into a more compact form, creating more room in their stomachs, because after half a cup, they dove back into the pies with a vengeance. Dean ate half the slice of pecan pie in three bites because "this tastes fucking incredible with the coffee." At Dean's urging, Sam devoured the other half. And agreed with him.

The rhubarb pie went largely untouched, but the custard pie also tasted better with the coffee than it did alone, so most of that slice went into the Winchesters as well. The German chocolate pie played beautifully against the black unsweetened coffee, and managed a respectable half-eaten status.

The waitress refilled their coffee cups. Finally, their pace began to slow. The key lime pie was nibbled at. Fingers were poked into the New York cheesecake and the vanilla-scented custard sucked from their fingertips. Their own, not each other's—not all the eyes on them were friendly.

"My stomach's going to burst." Dean looked over at Sam, eyes wide with worry. "Can stomachs actually burst?"

"Yes."

Dean stared at Sam with horror.

"But it's really rare. You usually just puke it up."

Dean made a sour face. "Gah. 30 kinds of pie puke."

"Gross." Sam rubbed his stomach.

The waitress brought the bill to them, with Sam's change, as he'd already paid for the meal. "You boys want the rest of these to go?" Sam and Dean surveyed the carnage.

"How about you bring us a box big enough for a whole pie? And…" Sam handed her a twenty. "We'd like a whole pecan pie too, please."

"Sure thing." She turned on her heel and walked away.

Sam toyed with the hem of Dean's shirt. "For Juliane and Danny and the others. For tomorrow. Even if we don't go."

The waitress returned quickly with an empty pie box, and a boxed pecan pie. Dean put in the cherry cheesecake slice, completely untouched, first. Then he added all the partially eaten apple pie slices. Sam filled the rest of the box with fruit pie leftovers, and after a moment's thought and a glance at Dean, he filled the last space with the half-consumed slice of pumpkin.

Dean put his hand on Sam's wrist. "That was your favorite."

Sam looked down at the table.

"Cold pumpkin pie, the day after Christmas. And apple cider."

Sam took a deep breath.

Dean nudged Sam with his shoulder. "Hey. You'll get to have it. Right?"

Sam took a swallow of lukewarm coffee. "Yeah."

Dean nudged Sam a little harder. "Hey. Look at me."

Sam looked up. Sure enough, his eyes were gleaming with tears.

"Sam. Christmas always was just you and me. Right? Dad was gone half the time. Or drunk if he was there. And… he always gave the lamest presents. Toys that were for kids three years younger than us. Generic Twinkies. Or… remember the year he gave us ammo?"

Sam snorted.

"For me? Christmas… it was always about you, Sammy. You and me."

Sam wiped his cheek. "Me too. But that's not it. This year…" He hesitated. "After what happened… Dad was nice to me." He looked at Dean directly. The sadness in his gaze hit Dean like a punch to the solar plexus. "He spent time with me. He said he was proud of me. He never… well, you remember." Dean nodded glumly. "And at Thanksgiving? How he was? I just… I was thinking this year, we'll finally get to have a real Christmas like other kids get. In a house, with Dad and Uncle Bobby and a bunch of people we don't know that well and they'd make a lot of noise and eat a lot, and have their kids with them like Bosie, and they'd give each other presents too…and we'd sneak out back when it got too much and we'd freeze our asses off, but then we'd go back in, and it would be loud and crazy and…"

"Like a big family."

Sam wiped his face again with the back of his hand. "Yeah."

"Is it ok, Sam? That it'll be just me?" Dean put on his trying to be stoic face. But Sam saw beneath it.

Looking around to make sure no one was staring at them, he brushed his mouth against Dean's, tongue daring to tease along the inner seam of his lips. He tasted of coffee, cream and pie crust. "It'll be perfect. Our first Christmas, just us. Together."

Sam and Dean stood up, stretching. Sam pocketed the change, leaving a generous tip. Dean took the pie box and they went to the car, walking so close together they were nearly touching. They got into the car. Dean put the pie box in the back seat, then pulled Sam to him for a long kiss, surprising in its slow sensuality.

"Happy Christmas Eve, Dean," Sam breathed.

"Happy Christmas Eve, Sam."

The man in the grey suit watched them from outside the front door of the restaurant. When they pulled away and drove out of the parking lot, he got into the back seat of his sedan and lay down flat. A black gout of smoke spurted from his face and eyes and rose into the air. It twined and coiled and flew many miles, finally descending to earth at a small farmhouse. On the porch was the figure of a white-haired man slumped over in a chair, a length of rope tied around his chest to hold him in it.

The smoke drove down and entered the man's mouth.

He opened his eyes. He reached for the rope and untied it. Then he stood, went to the door, and rang the doorbell.

The man who opened the door had close-cropped hair, and yellow eyes. "You have news of Sam Winchester?"

The white-haired man with jet-black eyes began to laugh. "Oh, you won't believe the news I've got for you."


	49. Demons Did a Bad Bad Thing

_Author's note: Ok, I'm warning you. This chapter is full of ick. Warnings for all sorts of things that may upset people. I can't list some because they will be spoilers, but if you have any issues with disturbing sexual behavior including hatefucking, consider yourself forewarned. The ick is meant to show a contrast between Sam and Dean's loving but uninhibited sex, and, well, what you might expect from a high-level demon. Demons aren't nice. They are evil. And they act like it._

"Come on in. Sit a spell." Azazel opened the front door wider and motioned to the white-haired man to come in. A fire blazed in the large brick fireplace in the living room. No electric lights were on anywhere in the house. Other than the fireplace, all the light came from candles and oil lamps.

"Nice." The white-haired man nodded in appreciation of the flickering flames

"Reminds ya of home a little. Doesn't it?" Azazel grinned.

"Actually, it does," the other demon said affably.

"Drink?"

"Please."

Azazel poured a generous amount of Scotch into a tumbler and handed it to him. Azazel filled his pint glass nearly to the brim. He drank half of it in one long swallow. "I love alcohol. Makes the meat suit all tingly." He walked deeper into the living room and sat down on the couch. "Hey, you don't mind if I…" He gestured toward the naked blonde girl, barely 18 years old, kneeling in a submissive posture on the carpet. Her skin was marked with fingertip-shaped bruises on her hips, thin red welts on her ass and thighs, and a pair of nipple clamps bit into her flesh cruelly.

"Make yourself at home," the other demon said.

Azazel unzipped himself and pulled his cock out. "Come on. Show my friend what a good little cock slut you are. Choke on it."

The blonde crawled forward, hair swaying in her face.

"New whore?" The demon sipped his Scotch.

Azazel hissed with pleasure as she closed her mouth over him and sank down. "I found her at a Catholic school." He stroked her hair in a parody of fondness. "She's a preacher's daughter. VERY devout." He gripped her hair hard suddenly, forcing her head down all the way. "What part of 'choke on it' don't you understand?" She brought her hands behind her back and held them there, submitting to him, gagging and choking on his cock, eyes tearing up. "That's a good little whore. Just…like…that." He held her down until she was spasming despite herself, desperate for air, and then pulled her up so she could suck in a shuddering breath.

He turned his attention back to the demon. "I've been training her up. Real nice. She started off a pretty pink virgin, on her knees for the Holy Father. And now she spreads her sticky little cunt for anyone I tell her to service." The blonde moaned, and started sucking on his cock again.

"Hmm." The demon looked impressed. "Looks like she likes it."

Azazel grinned, his teeth a faint yellow in the flicker of the flames. "Loves it. Gang bangs in the adult theatre are her personal favorite." His voice dropped to a low purr. "All those strangers. Using her. Again. And again. Just a filthy little fuckhole, drip drip dripping with come." The girl moaned louder, looking up at Azazel, fingers moving between her legs. "Oh yes. She loves it. She comes screaming." He leaned over toward the demon, as if to impart secret wisdom. "See, any low-rent demon can make the monkeys do every filthy fucking thing there is. But the real triumph? Making them love doing every filthy fucking thing there is, despite themselves." He stroked the girl's hair. "And the more innocent they are, the more delicious their degradation."

He held up one finger. "Excuse me for just a moment." He wrapped one hand in her hair, fucking her head down on his cock hard and deep, and pulled on the chain connecting her nipple clamps with the other hand. "Here you go, you little come slut. Swallow every fucking drop or I'll make you take both fists." She cried out in pain, and the vibration on his cock sent him over the edge, spurting into her mouth.

She swallowed and swallowed again. He let go of the chain and tipped her face up, turning it from side to side. "You swallowed it all." His mouth curled up. "What a shame." He removed the nipple clamps one at a time, and she cried out as each one was released and the blood flowed back. He slapped her face lightly. "Go upstairs. Get out the new toy. The big one. Work the whole thing in your ass. When it's all up inside, come back downstairs and show me." He glanced at the demon. "You want to stick around? I'd love to put my whore through her paces for you."

The demon finished his drink. "I was going to grab a pizza, but you know… this is better."

The girl pressed her cheek to the back of Azazel's hand gratefully. "Good girl. Now go do as I say." She rose to her feet and padded upstairs.

Azazel tucked himself back into his pants. "I cannot WAIT for Christmas morning," he chortled. "I have the best Christmas present in store for her."

The other demon raised his eyebrows curiously.

"I've got dear old Daddy all tied up in the basement." Azazel grinned. "Just wait until he sees what I've made out of his precious baby girl." He took another swig of Scotch. "I was going to wear him and rape her while he screamed inside his own meat suit, but she went full whore for me so damn fast, I had a better idea. Now she'll fuck whoever—and whatever-I tell her to, because I revealed to her what she really is. A filthy little cockslut that needs to be fucked rough and dirty in order to come. Oh yeah…she'll climb right up on Daddy's lap for me. Daddy is going to watch his whore child squirm on his dick, begging for permission to come on the cock that made her. And he's going to come harder than he has in his entire sad, meaningless existence."

The demon shook his head in awe. "I have to salute you. That's fucking twisted."

Azazel preened under the praise. "Oh, it gets better. I've got cameras all set up down there. I'm going to send copies to everyone in his church. I figure he'll eat a bullet before New Year's Day. Maybe her too."

"Two more damned souls for the cause?"

"Every little bit helps."

The other demon paused. "You said…whatever?"

Azazel leaned back on the couch. "Pretty little preacher's daughter just looooves doggies."

The demon laughed. "I'd tip my hat to you, if I was wearing a hat."

Azazel nodded. "Anywhoo. Enough social pleasantries. You have news of Sam Winchester?"

The demon set down his glass. "Yes. He and his brother left the protected place. I followed them to a restaurant."

"Did Sam look well?" Azazel's voice was pleasant.

"Yes sir. He seems to have healed up nicely."

"Good appetite?"

"Yes. The Winchesters ate rather a lot of pie." The demon described the large table full of every type of pie they made.

"Nice. A little gluttony. Very good. We have to encourage Sam to sate all of his appetites."

"Speaking of…" The demon told Azazel about Sam kissing Dean in the restaurant, about how Dean kissed him long and slow in the car.

Azazel's jaw fell open. Then the corners of his mouth curled up. Then he began to laugh. The laugh turned into a roaring fit of hilarity that lasted several minutes and left him curled on his side on the couch, tears oozing from his eyes. "Oh… that's the best. The fucking all-time BEST." He wheezed, helpless with laughter. "Papa Winchester's boys. Choking each other's chickens." He giggled, doubling over clutching his stomach. "Oh, it hurts. Christ on a stick, it hurts so good…" He finally recovered, wiping his streaming eyes. "Incest is just my favorite." He picked up the bottle of Scotch and refilled the demon's glass, and poured the remainder into his own. "This is just going to make my plan go sooooo much easier. So…a toast."

They clinked glasses and drank.

"Sir? If it's not presumptuous to ask…what's so special about Sam Winchester?"

Azazel cocked his head to the side.

"I mean, you have so many other candidates. And a monkey is a monkey is a monkey. So why is this monkey your favorite?"

Azazel snorted. "See, this is why I make the big bucks and you fetch my lattes. One monkey is not the same as another. The Plan is a thing of fucking beauty. The stench of it is going to reach all the way to wherever God has gone into hiding, and he'll be powerless to ignore it. Or stop it. But he'll have to see it. He'll have to suffer. Whoever of the Special Children wins won't just be the leader of the demon army. He has an extraordinarily special purpose to fulfill. For Lucifer himself. And Sam Winchester isn't just any monkey. Sam Winchester has the purest heart of any human I have ever found. And if I can corrupt the purest heart and turn him to serve Lucifer's will…" Azazel took another swallow of Scotch and held up his glass. "Now THAT is victory."

The demon dropped his head. "I see. My most sincere apologies. I didn't understand."

"Well, now you do. So, here's what I want." Azazel couldn't repress a chortle. "Fucking incest. I can't believe little Sammy is going to do half the work for me. Ok, we need to encourage our Samuel to be with Dean as often as possible. I want him on his knees corrupting his pure little heart for me, one delicious slurp of brother-come after another."

Azazel stood and paced in front of the fire. "Tell the team to do whatever they can to encourage them to be with each other. We want them to really enjoy being runaways. Keep them from going back with Papa, or that in-bred redneck they call an uncle. We want Sam to indulge in all his dark urges. Brother fucking. Eating whatever he wants. Drinking. Letting his rage grow. Get him started with the old ultra-violence. So… whenever they need a break from being balls deep in each other and come out of their little safe haven, think up with some good ways to let Sam stretch his legs. Set him up to get angry, and give him the warm body to take it out on." Azazel leaned against the mantle, eyes flashing yellow. "It's time my boy started learning how good it feels to cause pain."

Both heads turned at the sound of bare feet slapping delicately on the hardwood floor, as the blonde made her way awkwardly down the hallway to the living room.

"There's my girl," Azazel called out cheerily. "Come here and show us what a good little whore is allll about." The girl entered and knelt in the middle of the room. Azazel circled around her and kicked her knees farther apart. "Wider." She stretched her legs as far apart as she could. "Show us." She bent forward, putting her shoulder on the carpet, and pulled her ass cheeks apart. Her sphincter was stretched around a massive pink dildo as thick as her arm.

"Ooh. That's nice." The demon tilted his head to get a better view. "I'm actually impressed she could get that entire thing up there."

Azazel circled around again and stood in front of her. "Now, where are your manners?"

She blinked her bright blue eyes at him, confused.

"Have you forgotten how you greet all your new friends?"

She dropped to her knees and crawled to the white-haired man, moving behind him, keeping the giant dildo inside her. She sat up and unbuckled his pants, then tugged them and his underwear down to his ankles. Putting both hands on his buttocks, she spread them apart, revealing his pink hole, and licked it with a broad, flat stroke of her tongue. She moaned.

"Yeah. That tastes good. Doesn't it?" Azazel's smile was dark.

She licked his asshole again, swirling her tongue in a circle, probing deeper.

Azazel threw his arm casually around the white-haired demon, facing away from him, and looked down at the girl. "That's it. Get your tongue in there nice and deep. Say hello like a good little fucktoy."

The next several hours passed in a fire-licked frenzy of debauchery. The girl was passed back and forth like a pink, squealing piece of meat, a willing participant in indulging her most base desires and sating their depravity. Azazel held her up, bouncing her on his cock, while the other demon worked the massive toy in her ass at a punishing pace. "What's my name?" he purred. "Sir." "And what's your name?" He licked the salt off her neck. "Whore," she groaned.

They threw her to the carpet and double penetrated her, fucking her roughly, the thin membrane of flesh between their cocks stretched even thinner, a demon mouth at each ear muttering a stream of filth, all degrading language and cruel promises of further indignities. Impaled and helpless, wracked with equal parts pleasure and pain, she came screaming and sobbing, over and over.

They used every orifice to satisfy their lust. Their erections never flagged no matter how many times they came, gasping and shaking. Azazel even made a point of jamming his cock up the other demon's ass without warning, coming violently at his screech of pain, and making her suck out every drop of his come, laughing as she did so.

Finally, Azazel peeled himself off her, having come inside her abused throat for the third time, and pulled the other demon off her. "Enough. Have to leave a little left for tomorrow." He pushed the sweat-soaked hair out of her face. "Tomorrow's Christmas Day. Right, little one? And I've got such a special present for you."

Post-chapter author's note: _Some of the content of this chapter was written to illustrate the disturbing, unhealthy portrayal of incest many people have, as a way of contrasting it with the loving, consensual, healthy relationship between the Winchester brothers. The other sexual material was intended to show Azazel corrupting innocence to the most extreme end he can, to show what he (nonsexually) has planned for Sam. I will not be writing any further portrayals of this type or tone, in this or any fanfic. _


	50. Feel Like Making Love

Dean pulled the car around the side of the motel, where the license plate wouldn't be easily visible. Sam took the pie boxes from the back seat. Dean came around to his side of the car and put his arm through Sam's. They walked slowly, arm in arm, despite the cold night air, bodies pressed up against each other.

Inside the motel's front office, they rang the buzzer at the front, in the pattern Danny had told them. Within a few minutes, he emerged. "Hallway's clear. Come on through." The passed through the hall, through the iron bead curtain, and into the common area.

Sam set the boxes down on a table by the door. Juliane approached and stuck a steaming mug into each of their hands. Dean blew on his, and took a sip gingerly. "Cider!" His eyes were huge over the lip of the mug. "With a cinnamon stick!"

"Come on, sit by the fire." Juliane brought them to the couch by the crackling fire. "Cold out there."

On the mantle hung a row of red stockings with white fake fur cuffs. "I put them up on Christmas Eve," Juliana said. "Everyone gets one."

Dean ducked his head, and Sam looked uncomfortable. "We didn't… I mean, we kind of forgot it was Christmas…"

Juliane rolled her eyes. "You don't put stuff in the stockings. Silly. You get stuff in the stockings."

Dean snorted. "Jolly fat man in a red suit? He'd have to be a supernatural creature to hit up everyone in one night, and he'd never get through the wards."

Juliane looked at Sam like she understood what he had to put up with. Dean wrapped his lips around the cinnamon stick and sucked cider through it with a wet raspy sound.

"Did you have a nice dinner?" Juliana took a seat in a padded recliner across from them. Sam sat up straight. "Oh, I forgot." He crossed to the table by the door and came back with the top box. "It's a pie. For tomorrow."

Danny emerged from the kitchen and took the box from Sam, peeking inside. "Pecan? That's great. Thanks."

"So, are you two going to join us?"

Dean opened his mouth to say no, but stopped when he saw the expression on Sam's face. Remembering what Sam had said, about the Christmas he'd hoped they would have gotten to have this year. With a bunch of people eating too much and making too much noise. He composed his thoughts quickly. "We'd like to." Sam's face lit up, followed immediately by a frown of concern. Dean continued. "But we don't know who else is here, and…"

"You don't want to be recognized."

Dean didn't say anything.

"You're on the run from your dad." Dean froze, but then realized she was looking at Sam, not both of them.

"Remember my promise. I tell nothing. No matter who's asking. Your secrets are just that—yours."

Sam took a deep breath and blew it out. "I took off, yeah. Just for a while. Until I get my head together. And he wasn't too happy about that… And he's a hunter. Maybe someone staying here knows him. Knows to be looking for me."

"He doesn't know where you are?"

"No. And we want to keep it that way. He's…" Dean paused to choose his next words carefully.

"A son-of-a-bitch." Sam stared at the fire.

Juliane said, "Other than you, there are five hunters in the sanctuary. Four of them are German, and they just got to the US. The fifth chose full privacy, like you, and won't be joining us. Chances are, no one who'll be here tomorrow will know you. But I'll leave it up to you."

Sam looked at Dean. "We'll think about it."

"If you don't come for Christmas dinner, will you please come by Christmas morning, just the two of you? For your stockings."

"You really don't have to—"

"This makes me happy. Don't you want me to be happy?" Juliana's eyes were lively with amusement.

"She's stubborn. You two better say yes." Danny came with a pot of warm cider and refilled everyone's mugs.

"Thank you, Danny." Juliane gave him a grateful look. Danny smiled at her, and when she looked back toward Sam and Dean, his expression changed. It was an expression Dean knew all too well. Looking at something you desperately want, but knowing you'll never rate high enough to get it. It's how he used to look at Sam when no one was watching.

Juliane got up. "I've got to start the green bean casserole for tomorrow." Dean closed his eyes, and Sam poked him lightly in the ribs. "What?"

"That's about the only vegetable he'll eat."

"That's not true and you know it." Dean put on his mildly offended look. "I eat zucchini."

"Deep-fried."

"Spinach."

"Creamed."

"Dude. I eat… I eat broccoli!"

"In beer cheese soup."

"Does the beer and the cheese make it somehow not broccoli?"

"No but it kind of negates the purpose of eating it in the first place." Sam took another drink of cider. "And before you say it, potatoes count as starches, not vegetables. And ketchup isn't a vegetable either."

Dean opened his mouth but nothing came out. Sam cackled, having won the exchange.

"You two are all kinds of cute together." Juliane walked to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "Hang out as long as you want. Christmas Eve by the fire. It's kinda romantic."

Sam snuggled closer to Dean on the couch. "Check us out. Christmas Eve, and we're being romantic."

They sat in front of the fire, cold driven from their bones from its light and warmth, sipping cinnamon-scented cider, arms around each other. Sam leaned in and kissed Dean's neck, nuzzling it with his soft lips.

"This is what it felt like."

Sam tipped his head to the side in that way that said, "What?" without words.

"When I knew for sure. That you, you know. Felt that way about me too." Dean looked down into the contents of his mug, then looked up at Sam, his eyes gleaming like jade in the firelight.

Sam remembered Dean talking about this. All the way back, what felt like a hundred years ago. When he'd just been rescued, and was in the room in the clinic, and Dean stayed with him. When he still didn't know why he'd been taken. Or John's part in it. When Dean put his hand on Sam's chest so gently, touching the only place on his body that wasn't broken or bruised. _It's always been you, Sam. I can't even remember when I knew. You know, that we were more than. When I found out it was the same for you_…

"It was like how Christmas was supposed to feel."

Dean's lips parted, and his eyes widened. "Yeah."

Sam brushed his fingers through Dean's short hair, trailed his fingertips down the back of his neck. "What are you going to do now that you have me and Christmas feels the way it's supposed to?" His smile was pure love, accented with just a hint of mischief.

Dean set his mug down, and raised his hand to Sam's face, rubbing his thumb along his jaw line in that way that never failed to make Sam melt. "I'm going to take you to our bedroom and make love to you," he whispered.

Sam's mouth moved but only air came out. He swallowed hard.

"Is that what you want, Sammy?" Thumb moving slowly, back and forth.

Sam blinked rapidly, trying to find his words. "Dean," he said in a voice so low only one person in the room could hear him. "Please."

Dean bit his lip. "Let's get out of here."

Sam stood and squeezed Dean's hand, then went into the kitchen. Dean took the opportunity to go to where Danny was reading the paper. "Hey, if you're done with the comics, mind if I take it?"

Danny fished it out of the pile. "Go for it." Dean quickly folded it up and tucked it inside his coat pocket. He glanced over at Sam, whose back was to them, saying goodnight to Juliane. Danny followed his glance, and his gaze caught on Juliane, hand at the nape of her neck tightening the clip that held her hair back.

"Does she know?" Dean's expression was soft, understanding.

Danny froze, then closed his eyes for a moment. "That obvious?"

"I'm pretty tuned in to things like that."

Danny rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. "She has no idea."

Dean frowned. "Why don't you tell her? It's obvious she likes you."

Danny put his newspaper down. "There's a big difference between like and… well, besides, I'm too old for her. And she's not ready for anything like that. After what she's been through."

Dean nodded. "Doesn't like to be touched." They both glanced over, and at that exact moment, Sam had his hand on her arm, giving her a gentle squeeze.

Danny flinched. "I guess that depends on who's touching her."

"Hey, man." Dean sat down at the table, to put himself on equal footing. "Don't even go there. They've both been through something similar. And pretty fucking horrific. It's natural they'd… trust each other. And—" Dean very nearly said Sam, but caught himself at the last minute. "Paul just has this way of putting people at ease. He's like a big goofy therapy dog." The beginnings of a smile on Danny's lips was a good sign. Dean leaned in. "And don't even worry. He's mine. And I'm his."

The way Sam beamed at Dean, making a gesture of his head toward the door, illustrated that point perfectly.

Danny's shoulders relaxed. He made sure the hallway was clear and gestured it was safe to pass. "You guys have a nice night."

Sam picked up the box of leftover slices of pie, and took Dean's hand. "You too."

And Sam led Dean back to their sanctuary within the sanctuary. Dean found a few dusty votive candles in a kitchen drawer, and set them alight on the end table next to the bed. He set a glass of cold water on the table, and a clean hand towel. Then he undressed Sam with incredible slowness, his fingertips grazing Sam's skin as each article of clothing was slipped off. Eventually, Sam was naked, the lines of his body highlighted by the warm golden light of the candles.

"Lay down."

Sam obeyed, moving back on the bed, shoulders on the pillow, head craned so he could watch Dean.

Dean stood at the foot of the bed and just as slowly as he had done for Sam, he removed his clothing. It wasn't a tawdry strip tease. It was a revealing, an act of aching trust and love, peeling off the layers and baring himself to Sam. By the time the last article of clothing hit the floor, Sam was trembling.

"Come here." He extended his arms to Dean. Dean crawled onto the bed, slowly, with a powerful grace. He moved over Sam, brought his mouth to Sam's. The warmth of his body flowed over Sam's skin, almost but not quite touching him. Only their lips touched.

They kissed like that for a long time, until Sam arched his back, lifted his hands and ran them along the sides of Dean's ribcage and down his flanks. Dean shivered, and lowered himself. The feel of Dean's skin, so soft, impossibly soft for such a strong man, lifted a moan from Sam's lips. "Dean. I need you."

"Yeah?" Dean ghosted his lips along Sam's neck, mouth parted, the very tip of his tongue extended, touching Sam's skin so softly. "What do you need?" His words weren't desperate, mechanical porn dialogue meant to inject kink to camouflage the lack of actual intimacy. It was wanting to hear Sam's desire for him given voice, said out loud, not kept in secret and shadow.

Now it was Sam's turn to shiver. "I want you to make love to me."

This was the first time either of them had used that phrase. That phrase that would have made them giggle six months ago. Suddenly it had weight and promise and truth.

Dean slicked himself up slowly, eyes locked on Sam's. Sam closed his eyes then opened them again, like a cat blinking its message, "I trust you enough to close my eyes in your presence." Dean brought his fingers between Sam's legs, getting him wet enough to take him.

"Just… just you," Sam breathed. "I'm ready."

"You sure, Sammy?" Dean looked down at Sam, spread out beneath him.

"I want you inside me."

Dean groaned, dropped his head, pressing his forehead to Sam's. He moved his hips, just a little. Sam gasped.

"You ok?"

Sam smiled up at Dean. "You feel good." He spread his legs a little wider. Dean pressed against Sam's entrance a little harder. Sam's body yielded to Dean like he was born to take him inside, like Dean was the other half of Sam's body and it recognized him.

The head of Dean's cock slipped inside. He paused, gasping at how hot Sam was (_he always ran warm on the outside but inside mother of all that's holy_), how his flesh stretched to accommodate him, a silky strength that surrounded him, pulled him in deeper. "Oh god. Sammy…"

Sam arched his back, pushing down on Dean, taking him in deeper. "Dean."

Dean curled his back and drove himself inside Sam, so slowly that Sam was shuddering by the time Dean entered him completely.

He just stayed there, for a long time, holding most of his weight off Sam, looking into his eyes. Then he brought one hand to Sam's face and stroked it. "So beautiful."

Sam made a sound much like a sob.

"So beautiful," Dean repeated. He rocked himself inside Sam, sweet and slow, making sure Sam felt every inch of him, stroking his hair, kissing his neck, whispering praise and devotion. Sam didn't even know what to do with himself, so keen was the pleasure sparking off every nerve, the love pulsing through him in time with his heartbeat. He just shivered and made soft sounds that made Dean bite his lip, trying to hold out, to prolong this as long as he could, just to keep hearing Sam make those sounds.

Sam's sounds gradually built from breathy moans to louder cries, as the pleasure built, amping up inside him. Sam's skin gleamed, sweat-salty, his body opening to Dean in every possible way. He took hold of Dean's back, ran his nails lightly down the twin cords of muscle on either side of his spine. "Dean." His voice was more urgent.

"Sam. Sammy…" Dean moved quicker now, hands on the back of Sam's head, his chest and belly pressed tight against Sam's, moving in deep circles, every motion stroking his stomach against Sam's cock.

Sam cried out. He reached for the bottle, slicked his hand up, and brought it to his cock. He spread his thighs wide, giving Dean access to go deeper, faster, stroking himself, watching Dean watching him. "Dean. Oh god. Dean." Sam's cheeks were flushed red, hair gone wild and disheveled, muscles of his thighs taut, stomach fluttering, stroking himself faster now.

When the first wave of the orgasm hit, it came from somewhere deep inside Dean. So deep he didn't register it was happening until it had lifted him up, the sharp glorious center of it sparking and firing and as good as it had ever been with Sam… and it just kept going. Sam cried out again, louder, pure white droplets soaring out of him in a great arc, pattering on his chest and stomach. And Dean's orgasm just kept going. Sam came hard, writhing and making the most incredible sounds. And Dean's orgasm just kept going. It was almost frightening. But he was with Sam. So it was ok. He just surrendered to it, let it have him as long as it was going to. And after the last drop of fluid pulsed out of Sam, Dean's orgasm still kept going.

"Jesus Christ," Sam whispered, holding Dean as he shook and cried out again and again. Finally, mercifully, it peaked and ebbed. Sam held Dean as the aftershocks rattled his body. Sam shifted beneath him and Dean erupted in another fit of shivers. "Oh god. Oh god." Sam remained perfectly still and held Dean close.

At last, Dean was able to move without triggering new spasms of pleasure bordering on pain. He pulled free of Sam, and collapsed on his side. Sam fumbled for the towel, and cleaned Dean off first before taking care of himself. He brought the glass of water to Dean's lips, helped him drink, before taking a sip himself. He tucked Dean in beneath the sheets, blew out the candles, and curled up with him. "I love you. So much."

Dean murmured, "I love you back." He nestled closer. "Always have."

And as Sam drifted off to sleep, the scent of extinguished candle wick in the air, it felt for all the world like something dark inside him loosened and lifted, burned up by the light warming him from within, became black smoke that rose into the air and vanished.


	51. Christmastime is Here

Dean waited until he was sure Sam was completely, utterly and peacefully asleep before he stirred. Sam hadn't even needed to use the headphones and the cassette tape with the Thetan binaural beats. He just wrapped his hand around Dean's amulet, murmured a contented sound against Dean's chest, and fell asleep.

Dean extricated himself carefully, wincing as he tugged the amulet from Sam's fingers. But Sam remained asleep.

Dean pulled a small folded paper bag from an interior pocket of his duffel bag, grabbed his sweats and t-shirt from the floor, shut the bedroom door behind him quietly, and padded naked into the living room. He pulled on his clothes quickly, and removed the comics section from his coat pocket. Sitting at the small table, he opened the bag and let the object inside roll out into his hand. He looked at it for a moment, then gave it a quick squeeze and put it back in the paper bag. He folded the top of the bag down several times, then wrapped it up in the comics page, centering it on the image of a giant goofy dog with his tongue hanging out. His fingers moving deftly, he creased and folded the paper intricately, tucking the end flaps into little pockets he'd created, sealing the package tight without a scrap of tape or ribbon.

He set it down on the table, and rubbed his hand over his jaw, trying not to look at the phone. After a long moment, he blew out a long breath. Rising slowly to his feet, he opened the cupboard and took down the bottle of top-shelf bourbon he'd grabbed when they ran away from Bobby's house in the middle of the night. He poured two fingers into a coffee cup and swallowed a third of it in one long sip. Then he picked up the phone and dialed.

"I was going to say Eldrich and Jones Funeral Home., but there are only two people that'd call this number at this time of night."

"Hey Bobby."

"Tell me you're at the bus station and need me to pick you boys up."

Dean's exhalation, sad and weary, was Bobby's answer.

"I was sure hoping you two would be home for Christmas." Bobby's voice was sleep-rough, and every bit as sad and weary as Dean's sigh. "Your dad was too."

"I know." Dean stared at the far wall.

"Where are you?"

"Bobby. I can't tell you that and you know it."

"Ok. Where…crap. What kind of…damn it, Dean, you gotta tell me something."

"We're safe. I swear. Couldn't be any safer. And we're… Bobby, we're ok."

"Sam?"

"He's asleep." Dean kept his voice low, so Sam wouldn't wake up. "Which is awesome. He…" Being a voice on the phone, not in Bobby's presence, made it easier to say things he would have held back in person. "He wasn't sleeping. Like, at all. He kept having nightmares about the torture, but it was Dad doing it to him."

On the other end of the line, Bobby sucked in a breath through his teeth.

"It's been awful. Him knowing what Dad did. I don't think he slept more than five minutes total in the first three days after we left. But he's better now. A whole lot better. It's good for him to be away. Just him and me."

Bobby coughed. "I'm genuinely glad for that. So, uh, how are you two fixed for expenses?"

"I got it covered."

"What did you—"

Dean cut Bobby off. "Nothing Dad hasn't done a hundred times to keep us in Kool-Aid and hot dogs." He couldn't blunt the sharp edge of his anger.

"Listen. I'm not excusing the man when it comes to how he raised you boys. You know better than anyone how much I've got to say on that particular fucking subject."

Dean laughed, a bitter, hollow sound, and swallowed the rest of the bourbon in one gulp. He'd heard an earful from Bobby on multiple occasions on what a bad job John was doing with him and Sam.

"But…" Bobby paused as if choosing his words carefully. "Imagine what it must have been like for him."

"Bobby, I don't—"

It was Bobby's turn to cut him off. "No. Listen." His voice was urgent. "Just try to imagine what it was like for him, to see the love of his life. Murdered in front of him. By something …unnatural. How would you feel in his place?"

Dean suddenly pictured Sam, pinned to the ceiling, a ghastly blood-bloom unfurling on his stomach, a corona of fire roiling behind him, his face contorted in a scream for help, help that Dean, reaching up despite the searing heat, was powerless to give. He gripped the coffee cup hard and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to blot out the image.

"Imagine what that would do to a man. And then she was gone, and there he was, all alone, with a four-year old son and a baby boy. She was gone. Something like that… Dean, it's hard to just keep on breathing after that. Let alone raise two little boys right." Bobby took a deep breath. "I'm not saying his reason was enough. But…can you feel how something like that might break a man?"

_His Sammy. Burning. Screaming for him. Burning._ He slammed the coffee cup down on the table, shattering it. "Stop!"

He sucked in a shuddering breath, raised his hand, turning it, checking for cuts. He was lucky. "Yeah. I get it."

"He's done a lot of wrong to you boys, but he loves you. And he's trying."

"Really." Dean's voice was flat.

"Gonna have to take my word on that, Dean, until you come home and see for yourself."

"Well, don't leave the light on."

Dean could almost hear Bobby biting back a sharp retort. "I'm sorry. I didn't… I didn't call to be an asshole. I just wanted to say that we're ok. We're really ok. We're in a good place, and it's safe, and we're just gonna lick our wounds for a while, alright? And...uh, we miss you." It was complicated, sure, but it was true.

"I miss the hell out of you." Bobby's voice was choked. "And… you know how sorry I am. Dean. Don't you? And Sam?" His voice cracked, and he coughed to hide it.

Dean stacked the shards of the coffee cup into a pile. "It's killing you, Bobby. I can hear it."

Bobby made a sound that could in no way be camouflaged as anything other than a sob.

"I can't promise you Sam's ever gonna forgive you or Dad. Hell, I can't promise that I will. But…I want to. And I know he does too."

"I can live with that." Bobby sniffed. "I'll take that."

"So, any news on the whole, you know, demon thing?"

Bobby related what little they'd dug up so far, and ran down all the efforts they were making to learn more. Dean nodded, not sure if he was disappointed they hadn't learned anything concrete yet, or relieved the demon's purposes were still a blissful mystery.

"Now, I'm not gonna push you to tell me where you are or get you to come home, 'cause I want you to keep calling me, ok?"

"Ok." Dean couldn't repress a smile.

"That's my deal with you. But. You gotta remember, Reggie's out there looking for you, and he will find you sooner or later. And I'd bank on sooner."

Dean knew. But he also knew that they'd found a place where even Reggie couldn't get to them if they didn't want to be gotten to.

"I'm sorry everything went down like this, Bobby. Sam was…" Dean's voice got choked up. "He was really looking forward to Christmas at your place this year. With everyone."

"You're killing me here, kid."

"Sorry. I… look. I gotta go. Just…don't worry about us ok?"

"Try telling the desert to not be bone-dry."

"Don't worry about us too much, then. I'll call you in a couple of days."

"Well, when you two do come home, I've got a real special present for you. Been working on it for a few months now. So…don't stay gone too long, ok?"

Dean dropped his head. "We'll try."

"You call me now. And…Merry Christmas, Dean."

Dean glanced around the apartment, plain and spartan, devoid of any of the trappings of the holiday. When his eyes fell on the package he'd wrapped up for Sam, his mouth softened into a smile. "Merry Christmas, Bobby."

Dean threw the broken coffee mug in the trash, and made his way down the narrow hallway to the bedroom. He opened the door slowly, tucked the wrapped present back into his duffel bag and sat down.

Sam stirred, rising into wakefulness. "Dean?"

"I'm right here, Sammy."

"Where'd you go?" Sam reached for him, hands already gone damp with panic sweat.

"Shhh. I'm right here."

Sam grabbed him like he'd been missing for hours. "Where'd you go." His hands clutched Dean's clothing. "You're all dressed. Dean?"

Dean reached for Sam just as fiercely. _Sam. Burning on the ceiling_. "Sammy." He brought his mouth down onto Sam's.

"What were you doing?"

Sam's hands in his hair. His teeth nipping his skin. Dean shivered.

"Bobby. I was calling Bobby," he gasped.

"In the middle of the night? Why?" Sam pulled Dean's shirt up and over his head.

"Christmas. Sam. I… I couldn't let them just sit there, waiting for us."

Sam pressed his forehead against Dean's. "You're so much better than me."

"So not true."

"Yeah it is." Sam's hands were at Dean's waistband. "Off. Get them off."

Dean peeled his sweats off. Sam straddled him, grinding against him, no shyness in him, just primal need.

"Jesus, baby boy. Missed me that much?"

Sam reached between them, took hold of both their cocks in his large hand, stroking them simultaneously. "Yeah."

Dean arched his back, rutting against Sam. "So fucking needy. Want me so bad, don't you."

Sam groaned. "Always."

"How fast can you come for me, baby boy?"

The answer, as it turned out, was pretty fucking fast.

Sleep came again, easily, to both of them. When they awoke, it was morning.

Christmas morning.

Sam kissed Dean on the nose, then pulled on his boxers and jeans and ran into the kitchen. He pulled the box of pie leftovers out of the refrigerator and set it on the counter, then made a pot of strong coffee. He turned the TV on and tuned it to the channel with the flickering fire and the classic Christmas carols, Nat King Cole and Rosemary Clooney and all the rest. Once the coffee was almost completely brewed, filling the apartment with the rich scent, he went back in the bedroom and kissed Dean awake.

"Wha… ungh. Sam."

"It's Christmas."

"It's fucking early. What are you, six?" Dean fake-glared at Sam blearily.

"Christmas, Dean." He brought his lips close to Dean's ear. "There's pie."

Dean sat up. Sam practically dressed Dean and shoved him into the bathroom. "Brush your teeth." While Dean scoured his teeth and gargled with Listerine, Sam pulled out three packages, already wrapped in shiny pages from a car magazine, done while Dean slept, that second night in Cheyenne. He placed them on the little kitchen table, arranging them so there was equal space between them. He poured Dean's coffee, and doctored up his own.

Dean came into the kitchen as Sam was opening the box and setting the pie leftovers onto the counter. He pulled Sam close and kissed him.

"Ugh. You taste of Listerine."

"Better than morning breath."

Sam made a face like he wasn't sure about the accuracy of that statement.

"Coffee. And pie. And you. And coffee. And pie."

"S that your To Do list?"

Dean's mouth twitched in that little smirk reserved for when he saw Dad's Impala waxed and gleaming like sin on wheels, and when he saw his sweet baby brother spread out naked for him. Sam blinked rapidly, biting his lip.

"Did you just…you did."

"What?"

"Bat your eyelashes at me."

"Shut up." Sam blushed.

"And now you're blushing."

"Cut it out."

"Samantha."

"You're such a dick."

"You love my dick."

Sam shoved a mug into Dean's hand."Coffee. Drink. Now."

Dean sat down and took a huge swallow of coffee, grinning. Sam joined him, and put all the partially-eaten slices of pie onto a plate.

They drank coffee and ate pie, Sam's sock-covered foot rubbing against Dean's shin gently. Dean let Sam have all of what remained of the pumpkin pie, but Sam insisted on feeding him a bite, and then kissing him right after. "Mmmm."

"We're going back there tomorrow and getting a whole damn pumpkin pie." Dean made a mental note, because he really wasn't joking. Sammy loved pumpkin pie, and he was going to make damn sure Sam had plenty of it.

They savored the banana cream and lemon meringue. The berry pie slices were inhaled. "You know, pie for breakfast is actually healthy."

Sam sat back and tilted his head in a way that said, "Do tell."

"If it's fruit pie. This right here? Blackberry and what, blueberry?" Sam nodded. "Those are like, superberries. Full of antioxidants and shit. And fiber."

Sam pursed his lips, unable to dispute that.

Dean continued. "It's not too sweet. No more sugar than when we have oatmeal or cold cereal. Way less sugar than pancakes or muffins. Especially if you get a no-sugar-added pie."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "That's true."

"OK, the crust. White flour and fat. Now, if you do a single-crust pie, that's not that much crust per slice. And it has grains in it, which IS part of a balanced breakfast. You can't go all protein. You told me that. You need some grains."

"Go on."

"So, sure, it's simple carbs, but the fiber from the berries or apples balances that out. 'Cause it all mixes up in the stomach, right?"

"Right." Sam's expression was deeply amused.

"Ok, so. Fat. You need fat. If you had a low-fat crust, you couldn't absorb all the fat-soluble vitamins in the fruit. Berries have… wait… I got this… Vitamin E and K. Right?"

"You really were listening when I was doing my nutrition homework. Literally." Sam shook his head in awe.

"And the fat slows how fast you absorb the white flour in the pie crust, so it doesn't make your blood sugar spike and crash. Right?"

"You're totally right."

"And fat helps with… sa… sa-tie… how the hell do you say that again?"

"Satiety." Sam's mouth curled up in a grin of pure pride.

"Right. Makes you feel full, so you don't crave more food. Like, exactly what Chinese food doesn't do."

San bowed his head, and broke into a slow clap. "You're right."

"I am?" Dean beamed, a little surprised.

"You actually are. Throw a few walnuts in, and fruit pie would actually be a pretty healthy breakfast. A hell of a lot better than pancakes and syrup with bacon." Sam smiled at Dean. "See. I told how smart you were."

Dean blushed furiously, but looked pleased as hell.

Sam kept looking at the packages on the table. Dean glanced down, as if embarrassed.

"Hey, it's ok. It… there's been a lot going on. Christmas kinda snuck up on us. I don't care that you didn't get me anything. I mean, I got the best present of all. I got you." Sam smiled, and Dean felt the warmth of it on his skin. Sam meant it.

"And it's not much anyway. So… yeah. You wanna open them?"

Dean took Sam's hand. "Yeah. On the couch."

They sat on the couch with their coffee. Sam felt the packages, identifying which one was which, and handed Dean the first one. On the TV, the fire log flickered, and Bing Crosby crooned The Little Drummer Boy.

Dean eyed the photo of the Dodge Charger on the paper wrapping, and then tore into the package.

"Awesome!" Dean held a beautiful specimen of fool's gold in the palm of his hand. He turned it this way and that, admiring the bright, gleaming striations. "Thanks, Sam!"

Sam smiled even wider, dimples deepening, and drank in the delight on Dean's face unmasked by the facade of coolness he usually wore. Dad almost always drove past the roadside attractions that Dean clamored for just a few minutes to visit, and when he did stop, he never bought souvenirs.

Dean held it for a moment longer, as if he was loathe to put it down.

"Here." Sam handed him the second package, wrapped in a photo of a burgundy Plymouth Barracuda.

"Sweet." Dean opened that package more carefully, not wanting to rip that picture. He saw what was inside. "Dude. No way."

Sam grinned. "You like it?"

Dean held the trilobite fossil in both hands, his face lit up. "Trilobite!"

"You always wanted one."

"I always wanted one," Dean echoed. "And you… you got one for me."

Sam pushed the third one toward Dean. It was larger, the size of two fists. "I hope you like this one. I wasn't sure."

Dean peeled away the paper, featuring a Pontiac Firebird Trans Am. He fell silent at what he saw. The geode was a double: two perfectly equal shapes joined as one, side by side, each one ringed with green the color of Dean's eyes, with a center ring the same shade of blue Sam's eyes turned in the sunlight.

"It's a malachite/azurite double geode."

"Sammy."

"Do…do you like it?"

Dean's eyes welled up. "God, Sammy. It's… it's perfect." He tore his eyes away to meet Sam's gaze. "It's us."

Sam closed his eyes. Dean understood.

Dean's mouth brushed across his, soft and somehow the exact, precise temperature and texture that felt perfect to Sam. Just right.

"Look at me."

Sam opened his eyes. Dean pulled a small package from his jeans pocket and held it out to Sam.

"But…"

"I've had this for a long time. Been waiting to give it to you."

Sam laughed when he saw the cartoon dog on the center of the package. He turned it over, and his eyes widened to see that it was simply wrapped by folding, not tape or string. He opened it with exquisite care, taking as much pleasure in the adept way Dean had manipulated the paper as in the fact that Dean had a Christmas present for him after all. Dean basked in the warmth that flooded him to see Sam noticing what he had done, appreciating every single crease and fold.

Finally, Sam smoothed out the comics into a flat, uncut sheet, and picked up the small plain paper bag inside. He looked at Dean.

"Go on."

Sam unfolded the bag, and upended it over his outstretched palm.

A silver ring fell out.

"Dean." Sam's voice was just a whisper.

A silver ring exactly like the one Dean wore on the ring finger of his right hand.

"How did you…"

Dean looked up at Sam through his thick eyelashes, green eyes soft and hopeful. "I had it made for you."

Sam's hand shook. Dean closed both his hands over Sam's, folding his fingers over the ring. "I thought… you could wear it on your right hand, like me, for now. No one would know. What it really means. And then…when we…" Dean was fumbling for words, which was entirely unlike him. "When we get married."

Sam's lips parted, and he made the softest little gasp Dean had ever heard.

Dean pressed on. "When we get married, we can wear them on our left hands."

Sam lifted his hand free, uncurled his fingers, held his hand open. Dean picked up the ring. Sam turned his hand over and gave it to Dean. With trembling fingers, Dean slid the ring onto the fourth finger of Sam's right hand.

Sam slipped his hand into Dean's right hand, gently pulling him forward into a kiss. The rings met with a satisfying click. They both smiled, lips still joined, then Dean leaned forward and deepened the kiss, twining the fingers of his other hand into Sam's hair.

Finally, they broke the kiss. "You like it?"

Sam stared in awe at the ring on his finger, the exact twin of Dean's ring, then up at Dean. "It's… I can't even…"

Dean's smile was radiant. "You like it."

"Best Christmas ever."

"There's something else."

Sam's eyes went wide.

"I want to put my mark on you."

Sam's breath stopped.

"I thought… a tattoo or something… but then I thought of something we could do ourselves."

"What?"

"Our initials. But maybe that's stupid—"

Sam shushed Dean with his mouth on his. "Our initials. Like in the Impala."

_S.W. _

_D.W._

"Dean. That's perfect."

"Yeah?" Dean's face lit up.

"Right now?"

"If… if that's…"

"Yes."

Dean took Sam's hand and led him to the bedroom. "Where do you think?"

Sam lay back, pulled up his t-shirt and pulled the waistband of his sweatpants down. He trailed his finger along the diagonal line of muscle running downward from his hipbone. "Here." He touched a spot inside that groove, just above his pubic bone. "No one would see it here unless I was naked."

Dean blew out a shaky breath. "That's perfect."

Sam lay flat on the bed, gazing up at Dean. "Do it."

Dean dug out his Zippo, brought the sharp edge of the blade through the flame to sterilize it. "You ready?"

"Yes."

Dean wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the ornate knife.

"Don't just scratch me. I want it to last forever, Dean."

Dean bit his lip and brought the sharp tip of the blade down. It cut into Sam's skin like butter, so sharp that Sam didn't even feel it. He formed the D with three quick cuts, blood welling up immediately, and made a small cut, twisting the blade, for the period. He glanced at Sam, checking to see if it was ok. Sam's face was flushed, his pupils blown.

"Keep going."

Dean made four more cuts, forming the W, and carefully dug in and rotated the knife to make the second period. There was more blood than he had expected, little rivulets dripping down Sam's skin. He hadn't expected that, hadn't set out a towel. Without thinking, he leaned over and brought his mouth to the wound.

Sam gasped. Dean looked up, fearful that he'd crossed a line, pink mouth smeared with Sam's blood. Sam's hands, gentle on the back of his head, urging his mouth back down, reassured him.

Dean traced the lines his knife had cut into Sam's skin with his tongue. Three lines for D. Twirling his tongue as punctuation. Four lines for W. Another slow twirl of the tongue to put a point on it. "Mine. You're mine, Sammy."

Sam shuddered. "Always been yours."

"Always gonna be." Dean's voice was rough, demanding. "And I'm yours too." He leaned over Sam, red mouth curled into a smile. "Gonna mark me too, baby boy?"

Sam pulled Dean to him, kissing him fiercely, licking the taste of his blood from Dean's mouth. "Yeah."

Dean fell over onto his back, and undid his jeans. Sam shoved his shirt out of the way, picked up his knife, and straddling Dean's legs, he brought his knife down. Dean's flesh yielded to Sam's blade, parting where Sam wanted it parted. Three cuts for S. Four cuts for W.

Dean's breath came fast and harsh, and when Sam lowered his mouth, his tongue laving his skin, licking up the drops of blood, Dean grabbed Sam's hair. "God, Sammy…" Sam brought his mouth down, sealed his lips around the S, and sucked.

And Dean came. Just from that. Just from Sam's warm, wet mouth sealed over the mark he'd made on his skin, claiming Dean as his own, the mark that would forever be there, Sam's initials cut into his flesh, visible to anyone to whom Dean might find himself in front of naked. A mark making it clear that Dean already belonged to someone. To Sam.

Dean came sharp and fast and hot, surprised cries driven out of him. And when Sam, equally surprised, shifted his mouth over to swallow it down, the sight of Sam's blood-smeared mouth on his cock made him buck and groan, his orgasm kicking up three notches. He'd barely finished twitching before he pulled Sam up to straddle his face, pulled his sweats down, brought Sam's leaking cock to his lips and sucked a shuddering, wall-pounding orgasm out of him.

Sam collapsed at Dean's side, gasping for breath.

"You alright?" Dean peered at Sam.

"Hell yes." Sam blinked rapidly, like he was stunned. "Hell yes." He looked at Dean's wound. "You? Did I go too deep?"

Dean sat up and looked at the cuts. Deep enough to scar nicely, but not enough to cause structural damage. "I'm good." Dean started to laugh. "I'm real good." He wiped his mouth, smearing blood on the back of his hands. "I love you more than life itself, Sammy, but you gotta admit…we're a little weird."

Sam dissolved into laughter. When they'd finally settled down, Sam picked up his knife. "Better clean these." He paused, staring at the blade, Dean's blood along the edge. His eyebrows furrowed. Suddenly, he took Dean's hand, brought it to his stomach, catching a few droplets of his blood on Dean's thumb. He brought it to his blade, and gently smeared it along the surface. The knife blade grew warm, and to the surprise of both of them, the blood was absorbed into the surface, leaving it as clean as it was when it was pulled from its sheath.

Dean stared at the knife. "Sam. Is that…"

"Nothing to be afraid of." Sam's face showed surprise, but not fear.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I am. I don't know how, but I am."

Dean picked up his knife, Sam's blood clinging to the sharp edge. He did what Sam had done, bringing Sam's hand to his stomach, bloodying his fingertips, and smearing it along the side of his knife blade. Sam gasped as the knife warmed beneath his fingers, and drank in their combined blood, leaving the blade clean.

"What made you think to do that?"

"I don't know. It just… seemed like that's what the knife wanted."

To anyone else, that would have triggered alarm bells. But Dean Winchester was not anyone else. Holding the knife in his hand, the twin of the one Sam held, crafted by perhaps the finest knife-maker the world had yet seen, Dean searched his instincts and knew, just as Sam knew, that this was nothing to be afraid of.


	52. Ho Ho Ho

Dean brought Sam into the bathroom to clean up. Despite all the times he'd eased Sam's panic in the shower since they'd rescued him from Earle Spivey, Sam's fear in the water was still sharp. And this time, with both of them just having come, Dean couldn't rely on sexual contact to distract Sam. Sam hissed as the water hit him, partly due to the sting of it on Dean's initials cut into his skin, and partly due to a surge of panic.

"Hey. Hey, Sammy. You're good. I got you." Dean blocked Sam from most of the shower spray, and rubbed his back.

Sam's eyes were wild, pupils wide. "Gotta be quick. I can't…"

Dean nodded. "Get your hair wet." He spun Sam and backed him into the spray. Sam's breath hitched. Dean reached over and turned the shower off. "It's ok. No water. You can breathe. Right? Take a deep breath. In through your nose, out through your mouth. " Sam did, shuddering, one arm braced on the white tile. Dean quickly soaped up Sam's hair, lathered his hand with bar soap and washed Sam down with efficiency, as Sam squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth.

"Ok. Just gotta rinse you off." Dean turned on the water again, quickly rinsing the shampoo from Sam's hair. Sam trembled, shaking his head. "Dean, I—"

The shower water spilled over Sam's head. Over his face, into his open mouth. Sam pushed past Dean and out of the shower, standing in the middle of the bathroom with his head bowed, water dripping off him onto the floor.

Dean killed the water and stepped out. "Sam?"

Sam didn't move, eyes focused blankly on the far wall, taking deep breaths through his mouth and blowing the air out in sharp exhalations. Dean pulled a towel off the rack and wrapped it around Sam's shoulders. Sam flinched.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't you dare apologize, Sammy. Not for this. Not for… don't you dare."

Sam wouldn't meet Dean's eyes. "It's just a damn shower. I know. I'm just…too fucking weak to handle it."

Dean gripped the front of the towel, pulling Sam toward him. Sam tensed, expecting a big, forceful speech.

"Shhh." He kissed Sam's nose. "That's where you're wrong." He toweled Sam's skin gently. So gently. "You're the strongest person I've ever met, Sammy." He brought the towel up to Sam's dripping hair, dried it off. He grabbed another towel, and smoothed it over Sam's back, around his sides, down his thighs, kneeling in the huge puddle of water to dry Sam's legs. He looked up at Sam. "What you endured. And you never begged."

Sam's face flushed, seeing the pride spill over Dean's face. The love in his eyes.

"After what you went through? This is normal. Even for someone extraordinary like you." Dean stood up and brought the towel to Sam's face, wiping away the moisture there.

Sam looked him in the eyes, breathing starting to normalize. "Extraordinary?"

Dean's face creased into a huge smile. "Duh. You don't know that? How don't you know that?" Dean brushed his mouth against Sam's. "Guess I'll have to keep telling you."

Sam carefully dried the cuts on his abdomen and put antibiotic ointment on, and taped a gauze square over it, snugging it down on all four sides. Dean hopped back in the shower and quickly cleaned up. Sam, out of fair play or simple playfulness, insisted on Dean standing still while Sam toweled him off, rubbing him vigorously until his skin was pink and Dean was laughing.

He also insisted on dressing Dean's cuts. And then he insisted on Christmas cartoons.

They put on their most comfortable t-shirts, donned their sweatpants and wore their softest, thickest socks. Dean turned the heat up. Sam flipped through the channels until he landed on the Grinch Who Stole Christmas.

"Awesome." Dean settled down on the couch, moving a little gingerly. Sam leaned back and put his arm around Dean. They watched the whole thing. "When we get a dog, I wanna name him Max." Sam said.

"Alright." Dean wiggled so he slotted in next to Sam even closer.

When that ended, the channel began playing Miracle on 34th Street.

"Hell no," they both said in unison.

Dean chuckled and grabbed the remote. "My pick." Sam sat back, pursing his lips into that funny shape that pretended to be a bitch face but was really thinly veiled amusement. Dean cycled through the channels until the screen showed a barefoot Bruce Willis scrunching his toes on the carpet. "Son of a bitch." McClane gave a little laugh. "Fists with your toes."

Dean fell back against the couch and tossed the remote over his shoulder.

Sam snorted.

"What? It's a Christmas movie. It's an awesome Christmas movie."

And Sam had to agree, it was. He even dissolved into giggles at the bloody t-shirt reading, "Ho ho ho. Now I have a machine gun."

The movie came to its bloody and gloriously violent conclusion, ending with McClane in the back of the limo, kissing his wife as Nakatomi Plaza burns.

Dean leaned in and kissed Sam. He picked up Sam's right hand and squeezed it, running his thumb over the silver ring on his finger. "Gonna make you my wife, Sammy."

Sam cocked his head. "Wife?"

Dean's expression clearly registered a baffled "Of course."

Sam shook his head. "Dean. Neither of us has to be 'the wife.' We're just…us. Together. I mean, it's not like I'm always gonna be the one who gets…" Sam blushed.

"That is just about the most fucking adorable thing I've ever seen." Dean smoothed Sam's hair out of his face. "I love it when you're shy."

"I'm not, right? Always going to… I mean… when I… you liked it, right?"

Dean's face turned from loving amusement to something sharper, more heated. "When you fucked me?"

Sam swallowed.

"Yeah." Dean licked his lower lip, eyes locked onto Sam's. "I liked it."

"So… I can…"

"Hell yeah. But I ought to make you have to say it before you get to do it." Dean dug his teeth into his lip at the expression on Sam's face. "I like it when you talk dirty."

Sam's face turned even more bright red. "Dean."

Dean's mouth twitched. "Say it, baby boy. Tell me what you want."

Sam ducked his head, then lifted it again. "I want… to be inside you."

"There. Was that so hard?" Dean threw a leg over, straddling Sam. "Ah. Yeah. It is." He ground against Sam, already erect. "You get so hard for me, baby boy. So fast." Dean's voice was lower, rougher. "Yeah. You can do that. Tonight."

Sam shivered, hands gripping Dean's back.

"But you'll have to say it. And not like that." Dean brought his lips to Sam's neck, breathed out, traced the tip of his tongue behind Sam's ear, teasing that spot that made him shiver and arch his back. "Gonna have to tell me how bad you want to fuck me, sweetheart." Sam gasped. "Tell me how much you want to put your cock in my ass."

Sam slid his hands up underneath Dean's t-shirt, lightly scraping his nails along the thick cords of muscle.

Dean slipped off Sam's lap and slid onto the carpet between Sam's legs. "Christ, Sam, I just want us to fuck all day, every day. See how many times I could get you to come for me." He pulled Sam's sweats down, exposing Sam's hard, curving cock. He gripped Sam's hands in his, squeezing tightly, the hard silver ring on Sam's right hand pressing almost painfully against the side of his finger. He brought that hand to his mouth, kissed Sam's ring. Sam mirrored him, pulling Dean's right hand to his mouth and kissing it. Then Dean dropped his mouth lower, took Sam into his mouth.

He took his sweet time, lavishing Sam with attention, lapping slowly along the shaft gazing into Sam's eyes the way Sam loved, his pupils dilated so wide he looked high. Dean ran his tongue around the head of Sam's cock, moaning at the drop of precome he coaxed out. "You taste so good, Sammy." Dean nursed on the end to draw more out, making Sam shiver like electricity was coursing through him. He kept his eyes on Sam's, knowing full well the effect of the sight of Dean Winchester on his knees sucking cock. And he played it, lowering his thick eyelashes with a groan, opening them again slowly, rubbing the head of Sam's cock all over his pretty pink lips, sucking as he lowered his mouth all the way down, swallowing Sam to the base, sucking as he drew his mouth back up, jacking his cock as he dropped his mouth down, lapping at Sam's balls, drawing them into his mouth and sucking on them gently, tugging until Sam made the pretty little moans and cries Dean needed like he needed air. "Gonna come in my mouth, baby boy? Gonna come for me?"

Sam nodded, unable to form words, and Dean sank his mouth back down, working the base with his hand, rising and falling in tandem with his mouth, keeping it nice and wet, working the top half with his lips sealed tight, tongue stroking the underside, using suction but not too much, the way he'd deciphered Sam loved best. Sam loved Dean's velvet mouth, not the kind of blow job that could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch. So Dean caressed and stroked Sam's cock with his mouth, moaning at how good he felt in Dean's mouth, the pure sensuousness of what he was doing making his own cock pulse with pleasure, heavy and thick between his legs.

"Dean… oh god. Dean." His voice was soft, achingly genuine."You're gonna make me come."

Dean pulled his mouth off just long enough to say, "Yeah. Wanna taste you." He went back to doing exactly what he was doing before, mouth rising and falling, slick and soft, hand working the base, cradling Sam's balls in the other hand. Sam cried out, and again, louder, hands scrabbling to grip Dean's shoulders, and then the flood spilling over his tongue, the first pulse warm and sharp and salty and somehow still sweet, and the second pulse of that briny mineral tang that tasted better than it had any right to. Dean swallowed, and Sam cried out louder, called Dean's name, and pulsed into Dean's mouth again and again.

Dean swallowed every bit of it, Sam's cock twitching in his mouth, softly drew his lips together and coaxed out a few more drops, and then held him inside his mouth gently, knowing any movement would overstimulate him and feel like pain. After a moment, Sam went to pull out, and Dean shook his head no. He held him in his mouth until his cock had softened completely, loathe to let go.

Sam slid off the couch, on his knees in front of Dean, and kissed him, moaning at the taste of himself in Dean's mouth. Dean gasped at how hungrily Sam licked into his mouth, hips bucking against Sam's thigh. "My turn," Sam breathed into Dean's mouth.

He pushed Dean down onto his back, pulled his sweats down, and sucked Dean into his mouth like a man on a mission. Dean liked it harder than Sam, with more suction, and Sam gave him exactly what he needed. Within a minute, Dean was spasming, warm shivery tingles everywhere, up his spine, down his chest, along his jaw, rippling down his arms and legs, and the pleasure so sharp it felt almost impossible to bear rising from the center of him. "Fuck, Sam, oh god, oh god, Sammy, Sam…" Sam wrapped his hands behind Dean's lower back and sucked hard, hair flaring out as he tossed his head, mouth locked on Dean's cock, demanding his orgasm.

Dean came for his Sammy, came in his mouth, just like Sam wanted him to. And Sam drank him in, swallowed him like a sacrament.


	53. O Tannenbaum

The sanctuary was sealed against any form of supernatural creature, but the rooms were not air-tight. The scent of roasting meat and browned onions wafted down the hallway, crept under the front door and serpentined alluringly in front of the two young men curled up together on the carpeted floor, catching their breath.

Dean's eyes flashed open, and he sniffed the air like a dog. Sam propped himself up on one elbow and laughed.

"What?"

"You look like you're about to rise up in the air and float to the food."

Sam studied Dean's face. Dean pushed himself to a sitting position and got to his feet. "Hey, let's see if there's any food in here, huh?" He went into the kitchen and started opening cabinets, in which there were a few basic canned goods Juliane had been kind enough to stock. "Spaghetti-Os. You used to love those. Cold from the can, right, Sammy?"

Sam came up behind Dean and folded his arms around him, the silver ring on his finger gleaming. "We can go." His mouth was soft on the back of Dean's neck.

Dean spun in his arms. "You're sure?"

Sam shrugged. "Fresh off the plane from Germany, right? You ever hear Dad talk about knowing any hunters from Europe?"

Dean shook his head. "No. He almost made it seem like this whole hunting thing was just an American thing."

Sam tilted his head. "Yeah. That's kind of weird, actually." He brushed the hair out of his eyes, drawing Dean's attention to his silver ring yet again.

Dean took his hand, rubbed his thumb over the ring. "So… you want to go?"

Sam leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Dean's. "Yeah."

They rummaged through their clothing and pulled out the nicest stuff they had. Dean put on a thick hunter-green flannel that made his eyes stand out even more than they already did. Sam chose his blue-and-grey plaid flannel. They brushed their teeth together, standing over the single sink, taking turns spitting the foamy toothpaste into the basin and rinsing their mouths. Dean ran a wide-tooth comb through his hair. Sam padded into the bedroom and grabbed his brush, ran it fast and careless through his hair.

Dean followed. "Hey. You'll give yourself split ends like that. Sit."

Sam perched on the edge of the bed. Dean climbed up behind him, settled down on his knees, and took the brush from Sam's hand. He held a section in his hand and brushed the bottom section, clearing the tangles before moving up towards the scalp. He worked his way around Sam's head, stroking the brush through his thick brown hair, the tips of the bristles lightly scratching Sam's scalp.

Sam made a soft sound of pleasure and let his head fall back. The corner of Dean's mouth went up. He kept brushing Sam's hair, lifting it up from underneath, smoothing it down flat with his other hand. The bristles skimmed the sensitive patch behind Sam's ear, eliciting a shiver.

Dean set the brush on the bed and shifted position so he sat on the bed behind Sam, his legs on either side. He ran his fingers through Sam's hair, scratching his scalp with his fingernails. Sam shivered once more as Dean ran his fingers through his hair starting from the nape of his neck, pushing the locks forward, the hard edges of his nails stimulating the thousands of nerve endings in his scalp.

"That feel good, Sammy?"

Sammy answered with a moan.

Dean scratched and scraped delicately for a while longer, then smoothed his hair back into place, drawing the brush through it once more until it was gleaming and smooth.

Sam turned to Dean. His pupils were huge, like a powerful drug were coursing through his veins. "Now you."

He brought Dean around, wordlessly directed him to kneel on the floor between his legs, facing away. He scraped his fingernails lightly over Dean's scalp.

It was Dean's turn to shiver. He tipped his head forward, letting Sam have access to the sensitive nape of his neck. Sam drew his nails along the skin, shifting upward into his scalp, tickling and scratching.

"Mmm." Dean curled his hands around Sam's ankles.

Sam brought his right hand to the crown of Dean's head, fingertips joined, and slowly opened them, spreading out, trailing his fingernails over the sensitive skin. Dean's fingers tightened on Sam's ankles.

"Nice?"

"Yeah."

Sam stroked and petted, scratched and tickled, until Dean was practically purring. He dug his nails in a little deeper, Dean pushing back into it like a cat. "Shit."

Dean opened his eyes, and craned to look at Sam. "What?"

Sam had turned his folded hand over, examining his fingernails. "Better take care of this now." He kissed the top of Dean's head, hand dropping to Dean's shoulder, squeezing it. Then he scooted backward, rolling off the bed and heading to the bathroom. The crisp snick of the fingernail clippers could be heard all the way in the bedroom.

Dean's head jerked up as he put two and two together. Sam was trimming his fingernails so that he wouldn't hurt him later that night when he worked his fingers inside Dean, opening him up. Getting him ready to take him.

He followed Sam into the bathroom, came up behind him, bumping his hips against him. Sam smiled at him in the mirror. Dean took Sam's right hand and ran the pad of thumb over the top of his index finger, feeling how short Sam had trimmed the nail, how smooth it was.

Sam's smile mixed shyness with a blast of pure sexual heat. He moved Dean's thumb over the top of his middle finger…and then his ring finger too.

Dean bit his lip.

Three fingers. Sam had trimmed the nails short on three fingers.

Sam scrutinized Dean's face in the mirror and raised an eyebrow in a wordless question.

Dean kissed the back of Sam's neck. "Use your words, Sam. You know I like that."

Sam lifted his head up, a flare of something in his eyes that said he was up to the challenge. "Can you take three?"

A faint blush tinged Dean's cheeks, surprising both of them. "For you I can."

They sat on the bed and tugged on their boots, exchanging glances heavy with promise and sexual tension. Tidy and presentable, Sam rang Juliane to say they were coming. They gave it a few minutes to make sure the lone hunter still keeping to himself got the message to keep the hallway clear, and then they headed over.

Juliane opened the door, and a whuff of warm air issued from the apartment, heavy with the bracing scent of peppery cloves, yeasty aromas of baking bread, and the low bass note of caramelized meat juices. "Come in."

In the corner of the room was a real Christmas tree, decorated with big teardrop-shaped bulbs in red, green, blue and yellow, with silvery tinsel and ornaments. Sam shot Juliane a look of surprise. "That wasn't there last night."

"In my family, my mom and dad did the tree up on Christmas Eve, when all the kids went to bed. So the first time we saw it was Christmas morning." She smiled a bit sadly. "So that's what I do."

Seated on the couches in front of the fire were four blond men, comically large, the hard contours of their muscles evident even beneath their Christmas sweaters. The oldest, hair shot through with grey, had his left arm in a sling. The man next to him, in a blue and white Fair Isle sweater, had extensive bruising on his face. Across from them sat a heavyset man in a bright red sweater nearly the same color as his ruddy face, with a splint on two fingers of his right hand. Next to him was a lanky fellow with a broken nose and great dark circles under his eyes. He rose to his feet at the sight of Sam and Dean. "Fröhliche Weihnachten!" He extended his hand.

Sam shook it. "Merry Christmas to you too."

Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam, and shook the man's hand. "Hey. I'm, uh, Gene, and this is Paul."

"Very pleased to meet you. I'm Oskar." The lanky fellow nodded at the heavyset man in red. "This is Georg." Hands were shaken again. The man in the Fair Isle sweater rose. "My name is Volker." His grip was extremely strong.

The oldest man raised his right hand slowly in greeting. "Please forgive me if I don't get up. I am Otto."

Sam and Dean shook his hand, carefully. He seemed the worst for wear of all of them.

Danny approached carrying two mugs. "Here you go." Dean sniffed the contents appreciatively. "Hot apple cider."

Oskar clapped his hand on Sam's shoulder. "But you cannot drink it without a bit of schnapps." He picked up a bottle emblazoned with a gold double-headed eagle on a black background and poured a generous glug into each of their mugs.

Sam took a sip, and his eyes widened.

"Good, ja?" Oskar thumped Sam's back. "Make you grow up big and strong."

Sam and Dean sat in two comfortably stuffed chairs next to each other. Dean drank a mouthful of spiked cider, and blinked rapidly. Juliane, wearing a red and green sweater with a line of prancing reindeer on the front, walked between them all to the mantle and took down the two stockings still hanging over the fire.

Sam and Dean set their cider down on the coffee table, and took the stockings she handed them. "It's not much, but.. you know." Oskar and Georg pushed over and made room for her to sit. Danny busied himself in the kitchen.

The first thing they each pulled out, hooked over the top of the stocking, was an M&M candy cane filled with red and green M&Ms. "Awesome," Dean proclaimed.

Sam reached in and pulled out a plastic squirt gun, a package of Goldfish crackers, a small summer sausage, packages of gum, smoked almonds, several candy canes, a Rubik's Cube, and finally, a large orange fished out of the toe of the stocking.

Dean's stocking also held a squirt gun, candy canes, gum, and an orange, along with beef jerky, honey roasted peanuts, two packets of hot apple cider mix, a deck of playing cards and a keychain flashlight.

"Thank you." Dean's eyes were wide at the unexpected bounty. "Yes, thanks. This was so nice of you," Sam added.

Juliane just beamed, arms wrapped around herself. Sam toyed with the squirt gun. "Dude. Holy water!" Dean grinned. "You read my mind." The Germans seemed amused at the idea.

Sam sat with the contents of his stocking spread out on the coffee table before him, a silly grin on his face, looking at them, then the roaring fire, then the Christmas tree. "The tree…it's so great."

Georg leaned forward with a bit of effort. "Das hier ist sehr schön."

Everyone fell silent, looking at the Christmas tree, delicate silvery threads of tinsel glinting in the firelight, ornaments sparkling, the bronze star on the highest bough. Sam and Dean drank their apple cider, the warmth of the liquid and the heat of the alcohol tingling in their veins.

Suddenly the silence was broken by a male voice, resonant and full, filling the room. "O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum, Wie treu sind deine Blätter." It came from Otto. He sat up straight, left arm tucked close in the sling, mouth open, the glorious sound issuing from his throat. "Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit, nein auch im Winter, wenn es schneit. O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum, wie treu sind deine Blätter."

The other men joined in, voices nowhere near as rich or as well trained, forming a ragtag chorus. Otto's voice soared above them all, as they sang all three verses, faces animated by the flickering firelight, the air perfumed with the scent of pine needles and wood smoke.

The song came to an end. Everyone not of German ancestry applauded. Everyone of German ancestry looked pleased and a little embarrassed.

Oskar sprang to his feet and approached the Christmas tree, scrutinizing it carefully. "But…but…" he sputtered, "where is your pickle?"

After everyone not of German ancestry stopped roaring with laughing, Dean wiping tears from his eyes, Oskar explained it was a tradition that the Christmas tree had to have a pickle ornament, to assure good fortune for the following year. Upon learning that there was no pickle on the tree, Oskar asked if they had any actual pickles. As it turned out, Danny did have a jar of pickles in the cupboard, and within moments, Oskar had jerry-rigged a pickle ornament with a towel-dried actual pickle and a section of coat hanger.

"Can we give you a hand in the kitchen?" Sam asked Juliane.

She furrowed her brow. "That depends. Can you mash potatoes?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. "Yeah. My uncle made sure I knew how to not screw that one up." Sam's mouth tightened, as though he were determined not to be sad.

Sam and Dean mashed the potatoes and stirred them with warm milk and butter, just the way Bobby insisted. ("_You __mash__ them. Not beat 'em with a goddamn spoon until the whole thing seizes up like an engine run dry of oil.")_ Dean stood closer to Sam than was strictly necessary. None of the Germans seemed to mind.

The Germans set the table, and everyone helped bring the food to the table: glistening roast beef, a giant tureen of mushroom gravy speckled with black pepper, mashed potatoes that Dean had personally ensured were drowning in butter, a dish of buttered corn kernels, fat dinner rolls, candied yams with a blistered crust of marshmallows, and to Sam's delight, roasted Brussels sprouts. To drink, there was cola, a nice Napa Cabernet Sauvignon, and beer.

"To our hosts. Prost!" Oskar raised his glass of lager. "Prost!" echoed the others.

Sam raised their glasses to Juliane and Danny.

Juliane's face was pink. "No, really, thank you. If it weren't for you…" Her eyes met Danny's for a moment, then she lowered her gaze, and glanced back at everyone. "All of you… I'd be sitting here all by myself eating a whole bowl of macaroni and cheese. So I'm the one who's grateful." She raised her glass of red wine. "To you."

The Americans made a point of clinking every single glass against every other single glass, even to the point of Danny getting up from his chair so he could clink glasses with Juliane, seated across from him on the far end of the long table. This amused the German hunters to no end. "We just raise our glasses," Oskar said with a grin.

Then everyone heaped their plates to the brim, and ate like there was no tomorrow. Oskar and Georg regaled them with a tale of how they ferreted out a nest of ghouls, only to be nearly taken out by a lone vampire that had taken up residence near them out of a kind of fondness for them as pets. Sam and Dean mostly listened, aware they could not spill most of their stories without risking someone eventually figuring out who those two boys were. They weren't so much worried about being yanked out of there by John, but by people figuring out that they were brothers.

They tried to keep their little glances and touches to a minimum, but they weren't fooling anyone. During dinner, when Sam wiped a stray drip of gravy from the corner of Dean's mouth for the third time, eyes practically luminescent with adoration, Volker (the quietest of the hunters) smiled at them unexpectedly, baring a mouthful of perfect white teeth, and said, "You two are a very handsome couple."

Sam and Dean stared at him, mouths seized up on the food they had been chewing. They looked around the table. Everyone was smiling at them. Not a single look of judgment. Their relief was evident on their faces.

"You expected us to be, perhaps, disapproving?" Volker motioned at them in a jokingly dismissive wave, grinning even wider. "Please. We are from Berlin."

As dinner progressed and the alcohol flowed freely, the German hunters became louder and more animated. Sam had stuck to soda mostly, as had Dean, so as to be in good form later. Dean forked up another mouthful of roast beef drenched in gravy, watching Sam.

Sam was on his second plate, but had slowed down significantly. He dragged a caramelized Brussels sprout through the gravy, brow furrowed.

The hunters had slipped into speaking mostly German. The laughter rang against the walls, and their voices seemed harsh. Angry.

The main meal came to an end. Dinner plates were cleared, food swept from the table, and Danny brought out the pecan pie Sam and Dean had brought from Marie Callendar's. Soon everyone had a slice before them. Dean dug in, eating a third of his slice in the first bite.

Sam ate a small morsel of pie. Oskar thumped the table with both hands, roaring with laughter at something Otto had said. Sam flinched violently, almost knocking over his glass. Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder, wordlessly checking in with him. Sam took a deep breath and nodded at Dean to say he was fine, and ate another forkful of pie.

Oskar, Volker and Georg were oblivious to Sam's reaction, and began thumping on the table in unison, all staring at Otto. Banging their fists. Over. And over. The sound of flesh meeting a hard, unyielding object. Over and over.

Sam flinched again, blowing a puff of air out through his nostrils.

The pounding only increased in volume. Utensils rattled against the ceramic plates. Juliane started to rise from her seat.

But it was too late. Sam pushed away from the table. His face was contorted, sweating profusely. Dean leaned close, whispered in his ear, "Sam?"

Sam's hands trembled. "I can't… I can't…" He stood up, backed away from the table, turned away and sank down into a crouch, shaking violently.

The table fell quiet. Dean sank to the ground with him. "I got you. I'm here." Sam curled in on himself harder, silent sobs racking his body, starting to hyperventilate. His right hand clutched his chest.

Juliane shoved her chair back and went to the kitchen, grabbing a small bottle from a cabinet and a pen from the counter.

Sam started gasping for breath. Dean leaned over him, taking both his hands in his. Juliane fell to her knees next to him. "Here." She cracked open the bottle. The label read Peppermint Extract. "Breathe in. Paul! Breathe in." She held the small bottle under his nose. Without doing it consciously, he took a breath. His eyes flashed open.

"There you go." She smiled at him. "Paul. Are you having a flashback, or just a panic attack?"

Sam shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut again. She brought the vial to his nose, and made him breathe in. He shook his head, the strong scent distracting him. "Flashback or panic attack?"

He gripped Dean's hands hard. "Flashback."

"Visual?"

"What?" Sam was having trouble concentrating.

"Are you seeing it happen? Or are you feeling it, or hearing it?"

"Feeling… feeling it. Hearing it." Dean's face darkened. Sam fought for control. "I see…this. You."

"Ok. Good. Now look at me." She turned his head to face her. "Let the flashback happen. But look at me." She brought the pen up in front of his face. "Watch the pen. Just watch it. Feel what you're feeling. But watch this pen."

She waved the pen in front of his face in a specific pattern , flicking it from side to side. Sam's eyes followed the bilateral movement.

Remarkably, astonishingly, after about 30 seconds, Sam's breathing changed from ragged gasps to a smoother, steadier rhythm. After several minutes, he was noticeably calmer. Finally, he blinked, and focused on Juliane.

She pushed her hair out of her face. "Better?"

Sam nodded, then laughed, terror shifting to the euphoria of relief.

Dean practically carried Sam to the couch, paying attention to nothing else but him. He settled him down and sat next to him, pulling him into Dean's arms.

Sam just went with it, lax and boneless, face sheened with sweat, curling up on the couch and burying his face in Dean's chest, breathing in tandem with him.

Otto moved slowly to the couch opposite Sam, and sat down with a groan of pain. He watched Sam for a long time, silent and still. Then he spoke. "It happens to me too."

Sam opened his eyes, gazing at the old man with bloodshot blue eyes, broken arm in the sling, ruddiness from drink in his cheeks.

"It happens to all of us. Who hunt these things. Who are hurt by them." He smiled at Sam, a sad, knowing smile. "For us, this is normal."

Dean held Sam in front of the dwindling fire until he stopped shaking. Danny brought Sam a double shot of brandy. Sam swallowed it neat, with a stiff wrist, in a practiced motion that made Dean smile with barely concealed pride.

Finally, Sam sat up and pushed his hair off his forehead.

"You back with us?" Dean almost said Sammy, but caught himself just in time.

"Yeah." Sam licked his dry lips.

Juliane brought Sam a mug of herbal tea. "It tastes like cat butt. Drink it anyway."

Sam took a sip and wrinkled his nose.

"I warned you." She winked at Sam.

Sam drank his tea dutifully, but quickly. The other three German hunters helped Danny wrap up leftovers, quiet and respectful of Sam, and helped him wash the dishes. Dean refused to let go of Sam.

"Maybe you two want to go back to your place? Get some privacy?"

Sam blew out a long breath, almost shuddering with relief.

"I thought so." Juliane placed her hand on top of Sam's. Her eyes went to the new ring on Sam's hand, and over to Dean's, where he wore the matching ring. She said nothing, but her eyes twinkled.

Dean helped Sam stand. Not that Sam was still too weak to take his feet without help. But because Dean needed to.

"What I did there? We can do that on purpose. Trigger your memories, and break the associations." She fixed her attention on Dean, thrusting the bottle of peppermint extract into his hands. "If he has waking flashbacks or panic attacks, distract him. Like with this. With unusual sounds or scents or flavors. Whatever. Something unexpected. It makes the brain jump the track."

Dean nodded, understanding flooding his mind.

"When you're up to it, come see me. And we'll do this again." Sam looked stricken. "Look. You're going to have the panic attacks anyway. This way, you can get free of them. Fast."

Danny nodded. "She's right. It works."

Dean cocked his head. "It does?"

"Sure did for me."

Sam stood and without warning, pulled Juliane into a bear hug. Danny's face froze, unable to hide the jealousy on his face.

And Sam saw it.

He pulled away, glancing at Dean, and then back at Juliane. Her face lit up with a huge grin. "You… you hug real nice."

Sam stepped back. "Yeah? You should keep practicing that. Like…start hugging people." His eyes flickered to Danny. He dropped his eyes and turned away.

Juliane raised her eyebrows. "Maybe I will."

Sam and Dean said goodbye, thanking Danny for all he'd done. Sam put his hand on his shoulder, not saying anything with words, but in the way he looked at Danny, and at Juliane, Danny took his meaning. "It's fine. I… it's fine."

Sam leaned in and whispered something in his ear. Then he took Dean's hand and led him towards the door. They said farewell to the German hunters, took their stockings filled with loot, and returned to their apartment.

Inside, Dean asked, "What did you say to him?"

Sam said, "I told him, 'She's like a shelter animal. She wants human contact. But she's scared. Start small.'"

Dean shook his head. "You're just…awesome."

Sam stepped closer. "Did you mean it? What you said?"

A hint of color painted Dean's cheekbones.

"Yes."

"Good."

"You're sure you're up for it?"

Sam ran his hands down Dean's back, lingering lightly on the gentle curve of his ass. "I… I need it." He bit his lower lip. "Need you."

Dean kissed Sam, just a brush of his mouth. "I need to get ready. Don't fall asleep, ok?" His tone was gentle, teasing.

"Not a chance in hell."

Sam sat on the couch, toying with his water pistol, while Dean disappeared into the bathroom to prepare himself for Sam.


	54. Nothing's Gonna Harm You

Sam held the green plastic water pistol in his hands while Dean got himself ready in the privacy of the bathroom. _Gonna have to tell me how bad you want to fuck me, sweetheart. Tell me how much you want to put your cock in my ass. _His palms, damp from anticipation, stuck to the hard plastic grip.

Finally, Dean emerged, wearing nothing at all. He stood in the hallway, naked, letting Sam look at him, his cheeks lit with a faint blush of pink. "Hey. You coming?" He nodded toward the bedroom. Sam set the water pistol down and came to him.

When he walked into the bedroom, Dean was bent over, setting two hand towels and a glass of water on Sam's bedside table, the cords of muscle on his back standing out. Sam made a small noise deep in his throat.

Dean turned his head, and the pink tinge on his cheeks deepened. Sam's eyes drank in the sight of Dean from behind, moving up his hard calves, strong thighs, his tight, muscular ass.

Dean smiled at the avid expression on Sam's face. Before he knew it, Sam's hands were on him, turning him, pushing his back down gently so Dean was bent over, palms flat on the bed, Sam kneeling behind him. And then Sam's mouth was on him, moving softly over the curve of his ass, nibbling and licking. Dean gasped.

Sam trailed the tip of his tongue and his open mouth all over, drifting down the back of Dean's thighs, over the curve of his ass again, ghosting over the crack of his ass, breathing out warm air, making Dean shiver. But not quite making contact. "Ah. Come on, Sammy. Do it."

Sam's mouth, pressed lightly to Dean's skin, curled in a grin.

"Fuck. Sam. Please."

And Sam breathed out again, extended his tongue, and licked a slow stripe up the center of Dean's perfect ass.

Dean groaned, spreading his legs wider, giving Sam access.

Sam brought his hands up to cradle his ass, and spread it wider. The pink on Dean's face deepened, as Sam just looked at him, all the lights still on. "Sammy?"

"Shhh." Sam kept looking. "Jesus, Dean. You're fucking beautiful everywhere."

Dean blushed beet red.

Sam swiped his tongue again, curling in a slow sweet circle around Dean's hole. "Just… pink and tight and perfect." The shiver that ran through Dean did not start where Sam had his tongue, or in his cock. It issued from somewhere deep inside him, flooded through him, as Sam opened him up under the unforgiving electric light, looked at the most intimate part of his body, and declared it beautiful.

What Sam did next can only be described as worship. His hands stroked the twin globes of Dean's ass like it was a priceless work of art. His tongue and lips prayed to Dean, whispered words of devotion and deathless love, licking what some call the most base part of the human body and trembling with the pleasure of it, licking inside him with soft moans that shivered through Dean from the inside. He made Dean dance on the tip of his tongue, hips undulating, muscles squeezing and releasing, sweat sheening his skin.

At long last, he withdrew his mouth, and suddenly there was the snick of the cap being opened, a faint splorch of lube squeezed out, and the cold, slick feeling of Sam's finger pressed against Dean's center.

Dean, soft and licked open, took Sam's first finger effortlessly. He dropped his head to the mattress. "Sam."

Sam licked the back of Dean's thigh. "So…you like it when I talk dirty? Like you?"

"Yeah," Dean gasped. "You gonna?"

"I want to do things you like. So yeah." Sam's teeth closed over his flesh gently, fucking Dean with his finger slowly. "And you like this." In and out, slowly. "You always liked this."

Dean inhaled sharply with surprise.

"I saw you."

Dean looked over his shoulder in shock. A second finger joined the first, pressed against his entrance, insistent. Dean groaned again, bit his lip and let Sam in.

"I was little. You told me to take a nap, and you went downstairs." Sam's fingers, probing. "I was thirsty, and came out for a glass of water. I saw you." Slick fingers, working inside Dean's tightness. "On your knees. Bent over the recliner. Pants around your ankles. Your fingers in your ass."

Dean gasped, staring at Sam. The expression on Sam's face was hungry.

"It looked like it felt so good." Sam's fingers worked in him a little faster. "Did it, Dean?"

"Sammy…" Dean gasped.

"Did it feel good, Dean? Fingering your own ass? Just like I'm doing right now?"

"Jesus, Sammy." Dean pushed back against Sam's fingers. "Yeah."

"I thought so. Because I saw you another time too. That place in Tucson? With the courtyard and the sliding glass doors?"

Dean closed his eyes, knowing exactly what Sam meant.

"You didn't hear me come in the main door. You were on the floor of the living room in front of the TV. On your back, holding your legs back against your chest, shorts pulled back just far enough to get your hand up there. Fingering yourself nice and slow." Two fingers, working Dean, slippery and strong. "Just like this."

Dean arched his back, little sounds coming out of his throat.

"I stood there in the courtyard and I watched you. God, you took your time. And when you finally grabbed your dick…

"Sammy…"

"I did too."

"Oh god," Dean groaned.

"I watched you. Did what you did. Jacked my cock just like you were doing."

"Sammy… did you… did you come?"

"Right when you did. Came all over myself."

Dean cried out, writhed on Sam's fingers, cunning and strong, working deep inside him.

"Do I do it good, Dean? Like you like it?"

"Yeah. So good."

Sam stood, fingers still inside Dean, leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Were you thinking about me, Dean?"

Dean blew a sharp breath out of his nose.

Sam's mouth, warm against the sensitive skin at the back of his ear. "Tell me."

"Yes." Dean practically sobbed. "Yes."

Sam crawled onto the bed, still fully dressed except for his bare feet, urging Dean up onto the bed next to him on his back, and pulled his legs apart wide. He plunged his fingers back inside Dean. "Yeah? Imagined…what? It was my fingers inside you?" Dean blinked rapidly. "My cock?"

"Both."

Sam's smile was more wicked and worldly than Dean would have thought possible. "My fingers AND my cock? Bad boy."

Dean undulated in a full-body shiver. "I meant… both, like…"

Sam laughed softly. "I know what you meant." He brought the third finger up, pressed it against Dean's entrance. "But I bet you'd like that. Huh." He pressed into Dean. The tight outer ring resisted, then yielded, letting the tips of all three fingers slip inside him. "Me stretching you out like that." Dean gripped the base of his cock and squeezed hard, staving off the orgasm that threatened to roar through him from what Sam was saying.

Sam licked the salt from Dean's neck. "God, Dean. I want to fuck you. So bad. You have no idea how much." Sam moved his fingers in and out, delicately, letting Dean adjust, open to him.

Dean shifted, grinding against Sam's cock, huge and hard, against his hip. "I can guess," he gasped.

The tip of Sam's tongue traced little circles behind Dean's ear. "'S this what you wanted? Me talking dirty like you do to me? Make me go fucking crazy like you do? Telling you how bad I wanted to fuck you?" A little deeper, past the inner ring. The feeling, the sight of Sam, completely dressed, pressed up against Dean, completely naked, Sam's fingers filling him, was almost too pleasurable to bear.

Dean bit his lip. "Yeah."

Sam fucked his fingers into Dean a little deeper, a little harder. Dean opened to him like he'd been aching for this for weeks. And he had.

"You want to hear how bad I want to put my cock in your ass?"

"Yes. Christ. Yes."

Suddenly Sam's mouth was on Dean's, hard and demanding, tongue plunging past his lips, claiming Dean. Suddenly, his fingers were slamming into Dean, driving a cry of pleasure from Dean's lips, drinking it down like water. And again. And again. Dean raised his hips, fucked himself down on Sam, fucking back as hard as Sam shoved his fingers into him. When he felt the hard curve of the silver ring at the base of Sam's third finger pressed tight against his entrance, he cried out sharply.

"Gonna come from this, Dean? From your baby brother's fingers in your ass?" Sam's voice was low, sibilant. "Just like you used to dream about?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy, please…" Dean writhed and spread his thighs as wide as he could, impaled on Sam's fingers, not caring how shameless and needy he looked, how the desperate quaver in his voice gave his neediness away.

Sam's fingers slowed. Stopped. "Not yet. I want you to come on my cock."

Dean fought to catch his breath. "Then fuck me."

Sam stripped off his clothes, and lay back on the bed. He slicked up his cock nice and wet, and tugged Dean over. "Want you to ride my cock."

Dean's nostrils flared. "I'm gonna die. You're gonna fucking kill me."

"Come on. Do it."

Dean threw his leg over Sam and straddled him. Sam held his cock steady, and Dean positioned himself so that the head was right at his entrance. He sank down, and his head fell forward."Oh god."

Sam's expression switched in a microsecond from pleasure-soft to worry. "Am I hurting you? Dean—"

"No." Dean smiled. "Not that kind of 'oh god.'" He swiped his tongue over his lower lip.

"I don't want to hurt you." Sam's expression remained worried.

Dean leaned forward and smoothed Sam's hair back. "Shh.. it's ok. I'm ok."

Sam's breathing sped up. "Don't want to hurt you." His voice was thin, small. Scared.

"Hey. Hey. It's ok." Dean shifted so that Sam was no longer poised to enter him. "Shh, baby boy. You're not hurting me. Ok?" He stroked Sam's face. "Look at me." Sam obeyed, and the fear in his eyes lanced through Dean. "I want this. Ok?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "I need you. Like this."

Sam's expression softened, but Dean could still see the flicker of panic behind his eyes. And then Dean remembered, back what felt like a thousand years ago, when he lay with Sam and asked him, wordlessly, where the man with the dark powers to cause pain had made Sam feel the sensation of electroshock torture. Remembered how Sam had indicated yes when he touched his inner thighs. His cock.

The memory called up a powerful urge to protect Sam, to throw his body in front of anything that might come to hurt him. Right alongside this need to protect his Sam was the knowledge that Sam remembered this pain, and was now shaking with fear that he might be causing Dean pain in an intimate part of his body.

Dean kissed Sam like it was the last act as he lay dying. He drove every shred of love he felt for him into that kiss.

And Sam gasped, softened, stilled, feeling it flow through him.

"There you go, sweetheart." Dean stroked Sam's face. "Nobody's gonna get hurt. Ok? You're not gonna hurt me. And nothing's gonna hurt you. Not while I'm around." He kissed Sam again, fueled by a new kind of hunger. He pressed himself down so his chest and belly was tight against Sam's, forearms braced against Sam's sides, hands gripping his shoulders, as though he was shielding him. "Let me. Ok?" He moved so that Sam was against pressed against his entrance. "Sammy. I need this. Need you inside me. Come on, baby. Let me."

And Sam could refuse Dean nothing. Certainly not something Dean asked for like that.

Dean took Sam's mouth in his, brought his tongue between Sam's lips, and slowly thrust it inside, just as he took Sam's cock inside him and slowly sank down on it. Dean took Sam in, his silken heat stretching around him, surrounding him. When he felt the bandage covering his initials brush the skin of his inner thigh, taking Sam to the base, his skin erupted with a sheen of sweat, and he shook. "S'ok, Sam. Doesn't hurt. It feels good."

Sam examined his face for any signs of discomfort, and relaxed to see not so much as a flicker of pain. The fluttering panic was almost gone, but Dean could still sense its movement.

"I got you." Dean held still, calves sealed to the outer edge of Sam's legs, muscular thighs stretched wide over him, strong back shielding Sam, powerful arms holding him, his body enveloping Sam's cock, holding it snug and safe inside his flesh. Protecting him. "I got you."

His hands drifted, touching down lightly, so gently. He brought his face lower, right over Sam's cheek, almost touching, and blinked. Sam gasped at the feel of Dean's long eyelashes brushing against his skin. Dean drew his lashes over Sam's skin, blinking slowly, ghosting them over his cheek, his jaw, his forehead, and finally, his mouth, each brush of the lashes impossibly soft like the slow flutter of butterfly wings.

"Dean." Sam's face was lit up, words aching to be said but the language to convey them lost. All that remained was the first word he ever uttered. The last word he would ever breathe. "Dean."

Dean began to move, circling his hips, rotating on Sam's cock, unwilling to let an inch of his skin lose contact with Sam's. "You feel so good, Sammy." He kissed Sam again, teasing the seam of his lips with his tongue. "So good inside me like this." Sam ran his hand up Dean's flanks, gripped his hips. Dean finally lifted up, raising his hips, gripping Sam's cock so tight his inner flesh pulled against Sam's cock, driving a surprised gasp out of him. He sank back down, sheathing Sam inside his body, then rose back up again, his tightness tugging at Sam.

Sam gasped, and arched his back.

"You like that, baby boy?" Dean licked the sweat from Sam's chest. "Tell me." His voice softened. "I need to hear it, Sammy."

Sam heard it, the shimmer of insecurity in Dean's voice. He cradled Dean's head in his huge hands. "I love it."

Dean brought his mouth down, and then they spoke to each other only in sound and flesh, the scent of each other filling their senses. Sam finally pushed Dean back so he was sitting upright, and wrapped both hands, still slick with lube, around Dean's cock, holding his fingers in a tight ring, and pumped them up and down, never letting the head of Dean's cock emerge from the top end, surrounding him completely just like Dean's body surrounded Sam's cock.

Dean threw his head back with a cry. "Fuck. Sammy. That feels just like I'm…Jesus."

Sam was inside Dean, and the way Sam gripped Dean felt like Dean was also inside Sam, at the same time.

"Dean. Oh god. Dean." Sam bucked his hips upward in the way Dean had learned meant he was on the verge.

"Come on, Sammy. Come inside me."

Sam thrashed and cried out and then stilled, the world narrowing (_expanding?_) to only Dean, only his flesh inside Dean's flesh, to the keen pleasure shivering his whole body to pieces, melting him into liquid, and injecting him inside the body of the man he loved.

Dean felt Sam come, felt each pulse of fluid throbbing across the tight ring of muscle, felt each wet spurt inside him, his rise and fall slicker now. He thrust into Sam's clenched fists, the pleasure about to crest over him so intense he laughed, and then cried out, silver fireworks bursting behind his eyes, his whole body jolting and shuddering with each electric flash. Sam nearly screamed as Dean's muscles clenched on him, sucking an aftershock out of him shorter and sharper than the initial orgasm, spilling another loose, lazy spurt of come deep inside Dean.

Dean collapsed forward, all he could do to hold his weight off Sam. They shivered and gasped for breath.

Dean refused to move until Sam softened and slipped out of him on its own. Then he toppled onto his back with a sigh. Sam picked up the towel, paused for a moment, then rose and went into the bathroom. He returned and handed the towel to Dean, now warm and damp. Dean blinked at the unexpected gesture, and cleaned himself up. Sam did the same with the second towel.

Sam handed Dean the glass of water. He drank gratefully.

"You, uh, you ok?"

Dean laughed softly. "If I'm walking funny tomorrow, I won't mind. I promise."

Sam swallowed some water, pulled the blankets down, and settled in beneath them next to Dean. They lay in silence for a long time, just listening to each other breathe.

"Hey, Sammy?" Dean nuzzled Sam's neck. "Anything you ever want to try. I'm down. No limits. I mean it." He trailed his fingers over Sam's chest. "I mean… I was your first. And I can't stand the thought of you being with someone else."

Sam's eyes widened in horror. "I don't want to."

Dean exhaled a deep sigh of relief. "So if I'm the only person you're ever going to be with, I don't want you to miss out…or regret just being with me."

"I would never—"Sam began.

"You know what I mean." Dean stroked Sam's hair. "I want to give you everything. So just know that. Ok? Whatever comes into your head that floats your boat, we can do it."

"Anything?" Sam whispered.

"Anything. You can wear a dress. I'll wear a dress. Wig. Makeup. Toys. Role playing—any kind. I mean…ANY kind." Sam's face lit up with a surprised curiosity at that. "Spanking. Hell, I'll suck on your damn toes if that gets you off, Sammy." Dean tipped Sam's face up and make sure he was looking Dean in the eyes. "If I'm your one and only, I gotta be everything all in one for you."

Sam ran his hand down Dean's back. "All I need is this. Just you."

"Sam. We're in it for life. Right?"

Sam laughed, eyes lighting up. "Yeah."

"I'm gonna make sure we live a long, long time. So, we're talkin' more fifty years together. At least. I'm gonna make sure you're damn happy with me. So if you want me to sprinkle you with soy sauce and hang you over a hibachi, I promise you I won't bat an eye. Ok?"

Sam sucked in a breath through his nose. "Ok." His shoulders shook, as he tried to repress his laughter. "…hibachi?"

Dean shrugged. "Something I read about once. Japanese guy had a fetish for being treated like teriyaki chicken." Sam's jaw hung open. "For real. So just know that when I say anything, I mean it. Don't ever be afraid to ask for something. No matter how weird you think I'll think it is."

Sam murmured a sleepy assent, and curled up behind Dean, his right hand sealed over his amulet. Dean nestled into Sam's arms and fell asleep holding Sam's hand, their twin rings touching.


	55. Into the Light

The common room was silent. Danny wiped down the kitchen countertop with a dish cloth. Juliane was asleep, stretched out on the couch by the fire, reduced to embers pulsing orange and deep red, crackling as they cooled. Danny watched her slow and steady breathing, rubbing the cloth in the same circle over and over. Finally, he walked quietly into the living room, tugged the chenille throw off the back of the padded armchair and draped it over her. She did not stir. Her breathing remained even. He reached down and nestled a stray lock of her hair back behind her ear, knuckles lightly grazing the skin over her high cheekbone. "Merry Christmas." His voice was as soft as his touch. He left quietly, heading to his own apartment down the hall, glancing over his shoulder one more time at her, then drew the door shut behind him with a faint click.

Juliane opened her eyes, and brought her hand to her cheek, staring wide-eyed at the closed door.

Bobby hunched over his desk, books and papers strewn in an untidy heap in front of him, taking notes on a legal pad. Propped up against the green-glass banker's lamp was a framed photo of a younger Sam and Dean in front of a school baseball field, grass stains on their uniforms, Bobby's arms around their shoulders.

Upstairs, John tossed and turned, blankets kicked down to his ankles, the air ripe with the sour, sickly-sweet tang of alcohol sweating out of his system.

Azazel leaned back in his recliner with his feet up in front of the fire, a Café Diablo in his hands, and an eminently self-satisfied smile on his face. The soles of his shoes were stained with blood.

Reggie lay fully dressed on top of the motel room bed, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a scrap of paper in the other. He took another drink and exhaled heavily, eyeing the phone warily. Then he picked up the receiver and called the number written on the paper. He spoke softly, a note of apology in his voice, his wrinkles made more pronounced by the nervousness tightening his face. The man on the other end of the line spoke, and Reggie's face softened, lines fading away, a surprisingly shy smile baring his strong white teeth.

Sam and Dean lay naked under the blankets, enveloped in peaceful sleep, Sam's topmost arm and leg thrown over Dean like an affectionate Labrador. Dean nestled against Sam as close as possible to soak up the heat Sam gave off like a radiator.

Outside the Jaeger motel, a few hundred feet away from the sleeping pair, the dark-haired man in a grey suit sat in a silver sedan, engine idling, heat pushed to the maximum. A pretty blonde teenager sat in the passenger seat. Both of them patiently watched the motel entrance. Staring with hell-black eyes.

Waiting.

Dean awoke to Sam's mouth on his neck and his cock, erect and eager, pressing against his hip. He stirred, groaning, and Sam's hand moved to his own cock, already hard and ready for him. Dean reached for the lube and squeezed. A few drops were all that remained. He smeared it onto the underside of his cock and turned so they were facing each other on their sides. Their cocks touched, and they both groaned. Not caring about morning breath, Dean pulled Sam in for a slow, sweet kiss. Bodies pressed together, they ground against each other, taking their time. Dean turned them so he was on top, rubbing against Sam slow and sensual, brushing his hair out of his face and kissing him. Sam moaned into his mouth, crying out at the feel of Dean pressing against him everywhere, sliding against him, his balls, huge and heavy, against his own. Sam rocked his hips up, holding their cocks together in his hands so they slotted against each other perfectly. Despite Sam's wordless urging with hands and sounds, Dean kept it slow, rubbing against Sam like he could keep at it all day.

Sam flipped Dean onto his back, grinding against him faster.

"Love it when you take charge, Sammy." Dean gripped Sam's ass.

Sam's mouth twitched. "Ok." He sat up, straddling Dean, rutting against him, right hand gripping their cocks. Dean bit his lip, trying not to come first, but when Sam slid his other hand up his own chest and pinched his nipple, eyes fluttering shut, he couldn't hold back. He jerked beneath Sam, guttural cries punched out of him with each spasm, spilling out warm and slick onto his belly and all over Sam's cock.

"Fuck." Sam smeared Dean's come over their shafts, sliding over him more easily, hard and slippery. Wrapping both hands around their cocks once again, Sam's hips pumped forward faster. "Dean. Oh god, Dean." Dean groaned. The only thing better than the sound of his name in Sam's mouth was the way he said it when he came.

Came for him.

Without conscious volition, Dean found himself stroking Sam's flanks and murmuring, "Good boy." And Sam gasped, threw his head back, stretching his thighs wide apart, gripping their cocks tight, and came hard, cheeks flushed crimson, pink mouth agape.

Dean lay back and witnessed the force of nature that was Sam in the throes of an orgasm, the way his chest flushed as red as his cheeks, the thick white come spurting from his cock, porn-star perfect, how the muscles of his thighs and stomach flexed and fluttered. And the sounds. Oh god, the sounds.

"Beautiful," Dean whispered.

Sam's eyes flashed open in surprise and joy and even a little pride. He stroked his hand down his chest to his stomach, watching Dean watch him, drinking in the appreciation in Dean's eyes.

"Beautiful," Dean said again, unashamed, and drew Sam down into a kiss.

Soon, the demands of full bladders and empty stomachs drove them from the warmth of their bed. Dean cleaned them off in the bathroom with a warm, soapy washcloth. Sam blinked like a sleepy cat as Dean took care of him. "If you try to put my clothes on me again, I'm gonna dress you right back."

Dean's mouth twitched in a repressed smile. "Ok."

They dressed each other, smiles melting into laughter sliding into play wrestling ending with them on the bedroom floor, disheveled and pink-faced.

"Coffee." Dean straightened his t-shirt.

"Right. Coffee."

Sam started a pot of coffee, and surveyed the meager contents of the cupboards and refrigerator. "We need to go shopping."

They drank their coffee quickly, and Dean grabbed a stack of cash from the bag. Sam called ahead to Juliane to let them know they were coming through, and when the hall was clear, they came down into the common room.

"Hey, we're gonna head out to the grocery store. You want to come with?" Sam asked Juliane. Her gaze dropped, just for a second. "No, thanks. I'll stay here." Danny popped up from under the sink, where he was doing something to the pipes.

"Come on. It'll be fun. We'll buy you stuff." Sam was in a playful mood.

"I, uh. I don't go out."

Sam and Dean looked at her, confused. Danny said nothing, leaving it up to Juliane.

Juliane pulled her hair back. "I don't leave the compound." She glanced at Danny. "He takes care of getting whatever we need from outside." She gave him an apologetic smile.

"You don't go out…ever?" Sam raised his eyebrows.

She shrugged. "I go outside. In the parking lot. But not outside the salt line."

Sam reached his hand out, touched the back of her hand with his fingertips. Soft. Unthreatening. "How long?"

She closed her eyes. "I know. It's crazy."

"How long?" Sam repeated gently.

"Since I got out of the hospital. I…it just doesn't go well when I try."

Sam nodded. "I get it."

Her shoulders dropped as she blew out the tense breath she didn't know she was holding. "I know you do."

Sam kept the mood light. "Ok, so what can we get you at the store?"

Juliane tried to protest, but Sam insisted. She made a small list for him.

They drove to an Albertson's Dean had spotted on the way to Marie Callendar's. Sam stared out the window, lost in thought.

"Sam?"

Sam blew out a breath. "She's helping me. Maybe I can help her."

Dean ruffled Sam's hair.

Sam ducked his head, but the grin in his face said he didn't really mind that much. "What was that for?"

"You're kinda awesome."

"You're kinda hot." Sam gave him a look. One of those looks.

"Really? We just…already?"

"Yeah." Sam looked out the window, and then glanced back at Dean. "I could do that with you all day."

Dean pursed his lips, nodding slowly. "Noted." After a beat, he said, "We could just pull over. Behind that building. Probably no one would see us."

Sam blushed. "Dean. I meant…not in the car."

Dean grinned.

"What?"

"You're blushing."

"I am not." Sam flipped the visor down and examined his face in the mirror. "Crap."

As they bantered and flirted, the silver sedan followed at a discreet distance. Dean pulled into a parking spot, and the sedan parked a few spaces away.

Inside the grocery store, Dean let Sam push the cart. They headed down the cereal aisle first. Out of habit, Sam reached for the cheaper, store-brand cereal. Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Put that back." Sam glanced at him in surprise. "Get the good kind. The kind you like." Sam's brow furrowed. "Sam. We can buy whatever we want." Dean touched his jeans pocket, where the thick wad of money bulged.

Sam stared at Dean like it was Christmas Day all over again. "We can?"

"We can."

Sam threw his head back and laughed, throwing his hands up in the air in the quirky way he'd done since he was a little kid. Then he grabbed the most expensive box of cereal, with oats and almond clusters and blueberries, and a fancy bag of granola, the kind with a foil label and a ribbon on top. Dean picked out a box of Captain Crunch, and French Toast Crunch. Sam put his foot on the bottom of the cart and pushed off, propelling himself down the aisle, heading toward the dairy aisle. Dean grabbed the largest brick of Tillamook Cheddar cheese they had.

"Remember that government cheese we used to get in Wisconsin? That stuff was really good." Sam nodded, both of them remembering all the government cheese that wasn't: rubbery-textured loafs that tasted different from one brick to another because it was processed from leftover bits of other cheese, only tolerable in a grilled cheese sandwich.

Dean remembered it all. The trips to the store where he had to keep a running tally in his head, including the tax, so they weren't embarrassed by coming up short at the checkout counter. Buying generic fruit punch powder. Generic corned beef. Generic macaroni and cheese that tasted like sweet, chalky orange glop because they couldn't afford the luxury of real Kraft in the blue box. Mealy apples from discount stores, canned ravioli with gristly, chewy "beef," chili thinned with water to make it stretch. Going hungry so Sam got enough to eat.

Dean remembered all too well.

Sam put two dozen eggs into the cart, reached for a package of bacon, and hesitated. Dean reached over Sam, picked up two packages of bacon and tossed them in the cart. "Sammy. It's ok."

Sam stared at Dean, memories of discount orange drink and bologna sandwiches on stale white bread welling up within his mind. Dean took his hand. "Come on." He flashed Sam his best, brightest Dean Winchester smile.

He dragged Sam to the meat section. He perused the selection, and finally found what he was looking for. He picked up two packages of filet mignon steaks and put them in the cart.

Sam's eyes were huge. He shook his head, like he was still having trouble believing it. Then he leaned over and selected two packages of double-cut bone-in rib-eyes.

"That's my boy," Dean said.

Sam ran—he actually ran—toward the fish section, and came back with two lobster tails.

Dean frowned. Sam's face fell. "No, it's fine. I just…I don't know how to cook that stuff, Sammy."

"We'll figure it out." Sam's face lit up again.

They went up and down the aisles, getting everything they ever stared at with longing and wished they could buy: smoked oysters, olives, peppered salami, pastrami, smokehouse almonds, chocolate marshmallow Pinwheel cookies, Goldfish crackers, chocolate pudding cups… Sam put in gourmet mustard, fancy Asian sauces, things he didn't even know what they were but was curious to find out. And fresh food, because they'd lived their whole life on food that was canned, boxed or takeout, except for when they went to stay with Bobby. They filled their cart with the best, freshest fruits and vegetables, and had to get a second one. Dean pushed it down the beverage aisle, stocking it with name-brand sodas, not generic ones, and ginger ale because that was Sam's favorite. They turned the corner and found themselves in the wine, beer and spirits aisle.

They stared at each other, identical smiles spreading across their faces. Dean had a flawless fake ID declaring him to be 22. Dean surveyed the long aisle bristling with bottles. "Oh yeah."

As Dean picked out the nicest bottle of Bourbon they had, the dark-haired man in the grey suit came into the aisle pushing a cart. He glanced at the boys and the contents of their carts. "Having a party?"

They turned in unison. "How'd you guess?" Dean flashed his best smile, guaranteed to charm, and defuse suspicion.

The man smiled affably. "Know what the secret is to a great party? Adios Motherfuckers."

Dean snorted. "Ok. You have my attention."

"Best drink on the planet. Loosens everybody right up. No worries, no hang-ups. Just fun in a glass. It gets the ladies all giggly. Wild, you know?" The man glanced at Sam. "Boys too, if that's your thing." Sam straightened up, muscles tensing, his expression wary. Dean immediately stepped in closer. Protectively.

The man took a step back, laughing a bit too loud. "Sorry. I just…you two looked like you were together. I didn't mean to… um, I'm sorry if I…" He backpedaled so fast and earnestly, Dean took pity on him. "So how do you make an Adios Motherfucker?"

The man told them how to make it: four types of hard alcohol, one type of liqueur, sweet and sour, and Sprite. Dean cocked his head to the side appraisingly, knowing how much Sam loved candy drinks. _Giggly. And wild, you know?_ "What the hell."

The man grinned wide, his perfect white teeth standing out in the fluorescent light. "That is exactly what I always say. What the hell."

The man continued down the aisle and before he disappeared around the corner, he called over his shoulder, "Have fun, you two!"

Dean found space in the cart for the all the bottles of hard alcohol, flavorings and mixers the specialty drink called for. Sam picked out some expensive bottles of Cabernet. "For the steak." Suddenly Sam stopped in his tracks. "Oh. Almost forgot."

He ran down to the health care aisle and came back with tubes of KY, a bottle of massage oil, Alka-Seltzer, and Pepto-Bismol.

"Now it's a party." Dean glanced to either side to see if anyone was watching them. He didn't spot anyone. "I fucking love you." He stole a kiss. Sam's eyes flashed wide open in surprise.

"What else do we need? Maybe…candy?" Dean watched Sam's expression, waiting for it. Sam lit up like he'd said they were going to Disneyland, and Dean's smile in response was dizzying. They pushed their carts down the aisle.

The teenage girl was picking out tortilla chips from the end cap, and smiled at Dean as he rounded the corner first—and her smile widened as she got her first glimpse of Sam.

And Sam was startled to see her, curvy but fit, dark blonde hair, and green eyes almost exactly the same shade as Dean's. Her eyes widened as she took in the contents of their carts. Sam blinked rapidly at the sight of her, looking from Dean to her and back again, stunned by the resemblance.

"Frat party?"

Sam replied before Dean could get a word in. "Actually, we're picking up stuff for the firehouse."

Her eyes got even wider, her gloss-covered mouth parting, revealing a glimpse of white teeth and a bubblegum-pink tongue. "You're…firemen?" Her gaze moved quickly up and down, taking in their musculature evident even beneath their winter clothing, but most of her attention was locked on Sam.

Dean brought his hand down on Sam's shoulder in a manly smack. "Damn straight. This here's the probie." Sam's height always made him appear several years older than he was, and his quick-witted cover story was quite plausible for their physical condition and way of moving.

The blonde tossed her hair back over her shoulder. "That's so cool! My uncle's a firefighter in Provo." She stepped closer to Sam, so close he could smell her strawberry lip gloss.

"Really?" Dean's smile seemed perfectly friendly, but the gravely rumble implied she was treading on dangerous ground. "That's so interesting. Hey, we gotta finish up here and get back to the house. The probie's got dinner to make." Dean pulled Sam tight against him.

Sam gave Dean a look, but Dean just grinned. "Take care now, honey." He steered Sam away from the girl, toward the candy aisle.

After a beat, the dark-haired man appeared behind her. "He didn't bite?"

"Shockingly, no. Those two are fucking joined at the hip. You can't even see daylight between them. The girlsuit's no good here."

"I told you to dress more whorish." The man gave her attire, body-skimming but not slutty, a contemptuous look.

"And I told you that was the wrong play for this one. If girl's not his thing, slutty girl's definitely not his thing. He's still too…pure."

The man laughed. "That won't last long. Not once his blood activates."

The blonde bit her lip, watching Sam walk away. "I really hope he wins."

The man shot her a sidelong glance. "You can't wait to service him, can you?"

She sighed. "I want to scream for my King." The smile that snaked across her face was far older and infinitely more corrupt than the body that wore it. "I want him to fucking tear me apart."

To get to the candy section, they had to pass through the cookie section, where Dean did a tremendous amount of damage to his future cardiovascular health. Sam went equally nuts in the candy section, grabbing bags of Gummi bears, chocolate bars by the handful, Jaw Breakers, Bottle Caps, and one of each of whatever looked interesting that he'd never tried before. He put so much candy in the cart that Dean could not hold back a small frown.

"I'm not going to eat it all at once, Dean."

Dean gave Sam a stern look. "You are not going to get the diabetes. Not on my watch."

"You can work it off me." Sam shifted his weight from one leg to another, emphasizing the tight musculature of his ass without him being consciously aware he was doing it.

"Deal." Dean tore his eyes away from Sam's nether region and caught sight of the AstroPops in the cart. His eyes flashed up to Sam's mouth. "Hmm. Yeah. That'll work."

Sam saw what he was looking at, and his mouth fell open, which didn't help things any. And then Dean noticed the Pop Rocks, and raised his eyebrow. Sam gave him a quizzical look.

Dean smirked. "You don't know?"

"What?"

"Oh, this is gonna be good."

"Dean. Tell me."

"Uh-uh, baby boy." Sam bit his lip, blowing out his breath through his nose. Dean leaned close and whispered, "Gonna show you."

Their carts were so heavy they had to put real effort into pushing them toward the checkout line. Thankfully there weren't a huge number of shoppers, because it took twenty minutes just to ring up all their items. Sam's jaw dropped at the total that appeared on the register, but Dean counted out the cash without hesitation, face alight with what Sam realized was pride. At being able to do this for Sam. At not being broke.

They loaded up the car with all the bags. When Sam went to return the carts to the corral, the blonde girl was walking past on her way out, holding a plastic bag with her purchases. She paused, eyeing Sam. From the car, Dean's eyes shot daggers at her. She smiled, a little sadly. "So…he's your boyfriend?"

Sam nodded, glancing over his shoulder at Dean.

"You guys ever go to Sassy's?"

"What's that?"

She rolled her eyes. "Like, the gay club in town? It's so cool. You can dance, or not dance, or whatever. Nobody cares. You can just be yourself."

Sam looked over at Dean, suddenly imagining it vividly: Dean pressing him up against the wall, kissing him in public, just two boys in a roomful of people who didn't care that they were kissing each other. Suddenly he wanted to go so bad it was a physical ache in his chest.

The girl read the expression on Sam's face, and her mouth twitched with satisfaction. "Sixth and Harrison. Oh, and it's 18 and up, so you're totally good."

He turned his attention back to her. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and looked up at him. "Um, so… this is totally blunt, but…you're sure you're just into guys?"

Sam laughed, and looked at her with a hint of pity in his eyes. "I'm just into him." He jerked his head towards Dean, tapping his fingernails on the car roof impatiently.

She shrugged, mouth forming into a little pout of disappointment. "That's too bad." She dropped her eyes and looked up at him again through her thick eyelashes, a sudden surge of desire changing her features, transforming innocence to something wild and hungry, and a bit frightening.

Suddenly Sam winced, raising his hand to his head, as the vision unfolded within his brain. _A circular room lit with torches, marked with symbols, lined with men and women with hell-black eyes. A woman stepped forward and prostrated herself before him, uttering two words._

"Regem puerum," Sam whispered, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

The girl recoiled in shock, her eyes flashing black for a split-second. Sam did not see it, and her face was blocked by Sam's body, so Dean did not see it either. Eyes normal again, she looked over Sam's shoulder to Dean, waving to him. Dean came over in a half-run. Sam swayed on his feet, and Dean held him up. "You ok?"

"Head hurts," Sam choked out.

From his car parked further down the row, the dark-haired waved at the blonde girl. "Shoot. That's my Dad. I gotta go."

Dean gripped Sam tighter. "I got him."

She seemed at a loss for words. "Um… feel better?" Sam waved, not looking at her, and she spun on her heels and bounced off towards their car.

"Come on. Let's get back. Get some food into you." He steered Sam to the car and settled him in the front seat.

Sam sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, rubbing his temples, the pain subsiding. After a few moments, he opened his eyes. "I'm good."

"It's gone?"

"Yeah." Sam seemed as surprised as Dean.

Dean shook his head, blowing out a breath of relief. "That was weird."

"Dean. It wasn't just a headache. I… I saw something."

Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel like he did when he got anxious.

"I…don't know. She asked if you were my boyfriend, and I said yes." Dean smiled. "And she asked if we ever went to this gay club in town, and if I was really just into guys." Dean blinked slowly, chewing on his lower lip, biting back hard on the flare of jealousy. But Sam noticed.

"What'd you say?" Dean tried to act casual, but the jittery energy sparking off him was palpable.

Sam took Dean's hand. "I said I was just into you."

Dean scrutinized Sam's face intently. "Really?"

"I told you. I'm not into girls like that. And I don't think of other guys like that. Just you."

Dean dropped his head, blowing out a heavy breath. Then he looked up at Sam, a glint in his eye. "So. You're definitely not straight, but you're not gay either. You're…Deansexual."

Sam burst out laughing, and shoved his hair out of his eyes. "Yeah. I'm Deansexual."

Dean grinned like he'd just proved the Riemann hypothesis.

"Anyway. So. She looked really disappointed—"

"My heart bleeds," Dean said dryly.

"—and then this headache happened, like a spike in my eye going into my brain, and I…I saw…"

Dean just held Sam's hand, letting the silence stretch out, waiting for Sam to be ready to explain what he saw.

"Demons. A room full of demons. Surrounding me."

Dean sucked in a sharp breath.

Sam gripped Dean's fingers hard. "But they weren't attacking me, or holding me prisoner or anything. They were…it's like they were worshipping me."

Dean's head jerked up in surprise.

"And then one of them said something. Regem puerum."

Dean frowned, thinking. "…Boy King?"

Sam gave a little laugh, pretending like he wasn't scared. "See, I told you you were smart."

The flash of pride and surprise (the surprise breaking Sam's heart like it always did when he saw how Dean had believed the bad things people had said to him) on his face was followed by a micro-expression of concern which he quickly camouflaged. But Sam noticed.

Dean folded Sam into his arms, holding him as tight as he could without hurting him. "I got you, Sammy." The phrase soothed Sam as it always did when Dean spoke those words to him, trusting them utterly. "I don't know what that was all about, but we'll figure it out. Bobby'll know something. Or he'll find out. Ok?" Sam nodded, muscles tense. Dean shoved the tingle of fear down deep _(something about Boy King scared the hell out of him)_, and kissed Sam on the forehead. "Hey. The ice cream's melting." That brought a smile to Sam's face. "Let's go back and get all this shit stowed, and get some breakfast in you." Dean rummaged through some bags until he found the package of string cheese, and they each ate three of them on the way back to the motel to take the edge off their hunger.

Back at the hotel, they enlisted Danny's help to bring all the supplies in. He brought out a huge flat wagon cart with raised sides, and it still took two trips to bring everything inside. They handed off the things Juliane had put on her list, and a few extra things Sam had put in the cart to surprise her. Then they made their excuses and disappeared into their apartment.

Dean shut the door behind them. Once the lock snicked shut, Dean backed Sam up against the door, pushing his hips against him hard, gripping Sam's hair and claiming his mouth with a deep kiss. Sam made a small sound of surprise, and moved against him, cock filling with blood, twitching against Dean's thigh.

"Didn't like how she looked at you, Sammy." Sam made a soft little sound of pleasure. "You're mine." Dean tipped Sam's head to the side, exposing his neck. "Fucking mine." He sucked on Sam's skin hard, demanding, bringing blood surging to the surface. Sam moaned and arched his back, tipped his head back more, baring his neck to Dean. Dean purred his approval. He moved back just a bit, so his body was just an inch away from Sam, hands on Sam's shoulders pressing him against the wooden door, just looking at him, green eyes gone dark with desire. Being looked at like that made Sam shiver. He canted his hips forward, trying to make contact again.

Dean chuckled, a soft, sensual sound rich with promise, biting his lower lip at the sight of Sam, cheeks already gone pink, hazel eyes wide, wanting him so badly. "Go get yourself ready." He brought his hands down Sam's sides and cupped his ass, thrusting his cock right up against Sam's. "I want to fuck you." He stared at Sam's parted mouth, swiping his tongue over his lower lip, and then met his gaze again. "You want me to fuck you, baby boy?"

Sam's cock jerked, straining against his jeans, twitching against Dean's cock. Dean laughed again. "That's a yes?"

"Yes. Fuck yes."

The hunger on Dean's face made him look feral, dangerous. Sam loved it.

"Yes what?" Dean retracted his hips again, holding himself back so Sam could feel the heat from his body but not feel him. "What's the magic word?"

"Whatever you want it to be." Sam closed his eyes for a moment. _Hey, Sammy?_ _Anything you ever want to try. I'm down. No limits. I mean it._He opened his eyes, met Dean's gaze, dared to keep going. "Please. Sir. Master." _Trust me._ "Daddy."

Dean's palms slammed against the door hard on either side of Sam's head as he lunged at Sam, pinning him against the door, devouring his mouth, shaking as he ground his cock against Sam's, pumping his hips uncontrollably, wrapping his fingers in Sam's hair. Shaking.

Coming.

Dean losing it like that so fast, so completely made Sam fly apart too, coming in his pants, crying out into Dean's mouth as Dean's come soaked through the front of his jeans, smacking his head as he involuntarily threw it back as the orgasm peaked, thrashing in Dean's grasp. Dean gripped his ass and held him tight against him, still twitching and jerking and coming himself.

Finally, their shuddering stilled. Dean pushed Sam's hair out of his face and pressed his forehead against Sam's. "Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy," he whispered. "Fucking hell."

Dean could feel the question forming in Sam's mind before it even made it into words. "Yeah, that was ok. That was totally ok." He rubbed his thumb over Sam's jaw. "Anything you and I do together is good. You know why?"

Sam waited for the answer.

Dean's mouth twitched. "Because we love each other so fucking much it makes it ok. No matter how out there or kinky it is." He kissed Sam, slow and sweet and so thoroughly Sam felt dizzy. Finally, he pulled back and nuzzled Sam's neck. His voice was a whisper. "Besides, I know you never called him Daddy in your life."

Sam wrapped his arms around Dean and squeezed hard, relief washing over him in a flood. Dean got it. He understood.

"Not a damn thing wrong with you, Sammy." Dean hugged Sam just as hard. "Don't you think that for a second." Dean swiped his thumb over Sam's cheek, wiping away the tear trailing down his face. "Besides, just wait 'till I tell you about some of the stuff I want to do with you. All kinds of things."

Sam stared at Dean, rapt. "Like what?"

Dean closed his eyes. Even knowing what he'd said to Sam, what they had between them, it was still hard. But Sam had just trusted him, made himself so vulnerable. He had to step up. "Ok. Here's one. I want to suck you off while people watch." He kept his eyes closed. "I just…I want people to see. Us. Together. To not have to hide." He dared to open his eyes.

Sam was smiling, eyes wet. "Yes. We can…we can do that."

Dean swiped the back of his hand across his eyes. "Damn, I cry a lot."

"I won't tell."

"Sammy." The vulnerability bled into his voice, soft, almost a whisper. "I need to be inside you. Can—"

Sam pressed his lips to Dean's, soft and warm, lips parted, the tip of his tongue ghosting into Dean's mouth gently. "Just give me a minute." He squeezed Dean's hand, then got the special bag from the bedroom went into the bathroom, and turned on the shower.

Dean stashed the frozen items and the vodka in the empty freezer, nearly filling it, and put the perishable food in the refrigerator. They'd bought so much, he was barely able to fit it all in, and had to leave the eggs and most of the fruit on the counter. Once the food was safely put away, Dean stripped his clothes off in the kitchen and wiped himself off with a damp wad of paper towels, then walked naked into the bedroom, bringing the lube and massage oil with him.

Sam came in, damp toweled-dry hair clinging to his face, and crawled up onto the bed next to Dean. "How do you want me?"

Dean shook his head. "You're gonna be the death of me, I swear to god." He pulled Sam down, rolled on top of him. "I want you every way. All of them."

Sam looked up into those green eyes. "Do it. Anything." His words sent a shiver through Dean. "I mean it. Anything. Just like you said."

Dean sat back, unsnapped the cap on the KY and slicked up his cock. Sam spread his thighs wide, letting Dean see everything.

"You get yourself ready for me, baby boy?"

Sam's breath hitched. "Yeah."

Dean shoved Sam's thighs apart wider, pushing his hips back, and sealed his mouth over Sam's hole. Sam moaned as Dean lapped at him, lifted his hips up so his back was perpendicular to the bed, ass high in the air, cock pointed down. Dean swore at the sight, smacked his palms down on Sam's ass, and rimmed him like it was the best thing he'd ever done with his tongue. He licked Sam open, coaxing his tight pink rim to soften and open to him, making greedy little sounds that made Sam's toes curl.

"Only you," Sam gasped. "No one's ever going to do that to me but you."

Dean moaned, his mouth sealed over Sam, eyes the color of the sea during a storm. He raised his head. "Damn straight. You're mine." He stretched Sam open with his thumbs on either side, and plunged his tongue inside him as deep as he could get it.

"Yours," Sam whispered, shaking, shivering, dancing on Dean's tongue.

Dean slid his hand, still slick with lube, over Sam's cock, thumb moving over the sensitive spot at the base of the head. Sam cried out, and then again, louder, as Dean took hold of his cock in earnest, stroking it, tugging at Sam's balls, squeezing the shaft from the base to the head, milking him. "Dean. You're gonna make me come."

Dean squeezed the base of Sam's cock with a soft chuckle. "Not yet, sweetheart." He lowered Sam's hips, hooked his arms under Sam's knees, pressing them back, and brought himself to Sam's entrance. "And not like that. You're gonna come on my cock." He pressed against Sam, barely breaching him. "Just my cock. Can you do that for me?"

Sam wriggled, trying to take Dean deeper inside me. "Yeah."

Dean watched Sam's face intently, and said, "That's my good boy."

Sam reacted immediately, making a primal, guttural sound and arching his back, desperate for Dean to enter him. "Come on. Please…"

Dean rubbed the pad of his thumb over Sam's lower lip. "Please…what?"

The electricity in the air was almost palpable. Sam bit his lip, hesitant, not sure he was ready to go over that cliff.

"It's ok, Sammy. Just you and me. It's safe. We're just playing. Doesn't mean anything more than that. Anything we want to do, or say, or wear, or pretend, it's all good." Dean kissed the hollow of Sam's throat. "I love you. Get it? You're perfect and pure and mine, and I want to make you feel good." Another lingering kiss, his tongue probing, insisting Sam let him in. "Besides… it's not just you. I want to." Dean's breathing was ragged. "You fucking made me come just by saying it." Dean's pupils were blown wide, cock so hard and engorged it was dark red. "Sammy. Say it."

Sam swallowed hard, and putting his trust in Dean, surrendered to it. "Please, daddy."

Dean shuddered. With a groan, he pushed into Sam in one long thrust, burying himself inside him to the hilt. "Wanted to go slow. Stay inside you for hours. But there's no way. You're just…fuck."

Sam's body stretched to accommodate Dean's cock like he was born to do it, like he was made just for Dean. Dean licked into Sam's mouth with a moan, driving into Sam deep and hard, hips rising and falling. Sam stretched his arms over his head, sucked on Dean's tongue, surrendering to Dean completely, a feeling of elation filling him as he realized that saying it didn't make him feel dirtybadwrong. It made him feel lighter. Clean. More pure. Because he confessed something scary to Dean, and Dean accepted it, loved him even more for it, gave him what he needed. He took what Sam thought was his dirty little secret and brought it out into the light, revealed it to be nothing dangerous, just a little spice to change the flavor of what they had together.

Sam laughed with the joy of it. The freedom. The knowledge that he could ask Dean to try anything now. Anything at all. "Your cock feels so good, daddy."

Dean laughed too. "Yeah, baby boy? You like it?" Dean's smile was blinding. He fucked into Sam like he'd never done before, twisting and driving in, back muscles standing out thick and strong. "You like it when daddy fucks you?"

"Yes," Sam hissed, shuddering to hear Dean say it for the first time, taking hold of Dean's face with both hands, making him look him in the eyes. "Say it again."

Dean's mouth fell open at the look on Sam's face, infinite love and keen need, and so much trust it nearly undid him. "Come on. Show daddy how much you love it." He sat on his heels and pulled Sam forward, still impaled on him, lifting his hips up, angling him so his shoulders and feet were pressed flat on the mattress.

Sam arched up, weight on his shoulders and heels, waggling his hips up and down, riding Dean's cock fast and hard as Dean held steady, letting Sam fuck himself on Dean's cock. "You're taking it so good for me. Such a good boy."

"Fuck, daddy, feels so good…" Sam worked himself hard and fast, panting and writhing, but after a few moments, he whimpered because the angle wasn't right to go as hard as he wanted. "More. Please. Harder, daddy."

"You want it harder?" Sam nodded furiously. "Show me." Dean lifted Sam up into his lap, knees on the mattress, and put his arms around Dean's neck. "Ride my cock, sweetheart. Show me how hard you like it."

Sam rose and fell on Dean's cock, fucking himself hard, sweet little sounds of satisfaction issuing from his throat.

"Ah, that's my boy," Dean purred.

Sam moaned at the praise, brought Dean's index and middle fingers into his mouth, and sucked on them, sliding his mouth back and forth on them in perfect sync with the rise and fall on Dean's cock.

"Jesus. Sam." Dean leaned back on his free hand, watching Sam, unfettered and uninhibited, giving himself over to Dean, so alive with the pleasure of it.

"Gonna make me come, daddy."

Dean's mouth fell open, unable to even formulate words now. He just nodded, sliding his hands up Sam's back, pulling him down harder, rotating his hips in circles as Sam slid up and down on his cock.

"Jesus. Daddy. Dean. Oh god. Dean." The last word came out as a sob.

"Sam. Come for me." Dean pushed every ounce of command voice he had into those three words. And Sam obeyed instantly, crying out, spilling over Dean's belly, coming untouched on Dean's cock. He twitched and writhed like a wild thing, like the pleasure was screaming through his whole body, controlling every part of it, demanding outlet not just through the fluid spurting from him or the cries that thickened into a scream but through movement of his whole body, a whirlwind of kinetic energy.

In the midst of the storm that was Sam coming apart for Dean, Sam milked Dean's orgasm out of him. Dean's back curled, every muscle in his body contracting, fueling his release, shooting deep inside Sam, dissolving into him, guttural cries punched out of him. He could feel Sam pulling it out of him, drinking it up inside him, kicking his own orgasm to a higher plane, one where sound and motion no longer were relevant. Sam stilled, threw his head back, mouth open, the cords of his neck standing out.

For a split second, Dean thought he saw light shoot out of Sam, explode outward from his forehead and throat, spike from the top of his head and the base of his tailbone; he even thought he actually felt physical heat shooting through his body from light pouring from Sam's chest, belly button and cock. But then his vision whited out completely. The only thing that existed was Sam, and him.

When Dean came to, he was still inside Sam, still on his knees, slumped forward against Sam, Sam leaning against him limp and boneless, balancing each other out so they did not collapse.

He lifted Sam up, laid him back on the bed, slipping out of him in the process. Sam stirred with a sound of complaint. "Shhh… I'm right here." He grabbed one of the towels on the bedside table to clean Sam up so there wouldn't be much of a wet spot. Oddly, all there was to clean up was a bit of lube, despite Dean having spilled what felt like all the fluid in his body into Sam.

He did collapse then, at Sam's side. He put his head on Sam's chest, listening to Sam's even breathing, the strong pulses of his heartbeat, and before he knew it, he was as fast asleep as Sam.

Sam dreamed he was naked inside a car wash with no roof. Dean was there, fully clothed. He put a hand on the small of Sam's back. "It's ok, Sammy." Dean gently urged Sam to walk forward. He moved slowly, like a car on tracks being pulled through the structure. Pipes in the walls sprayed soapy water on him, great flapping things pelted him softly like being licked by a wiggle of puppies. From above, a sudden burst of rain, gleaming droplets illuminated by the bright sun overhead, burst from cloudless skies and poured over him, through him, tickling as it rained inside his body. He felt something inside him, something sticky and not right, dissolve and melt away. The rain ceased and warm puffs of air blew over him, water droplets on his skin flying off, his wet hair lifted, caressed by the air currents, and dried. At the far end of the structure, Dean stood waiting for him, hand extended to him, sunlight bringing out the gold in his hair and the emerald of his eyes. Sam looked down at his bare feet. Serpentine coils of a black substance slid down the drain, washed away by the clear water.

He raised his head, walked outside into the sun and slipped his hand into Dean's.

They slept until the rumbling of their empty stomachs prodded them awake. "Starving," Dean murmured. "Food."

"We have food," Sam said sleepily.

"We have food," Dean echoed in a groggy voice. "Dude." He sat upright, eyes huge. "We have food."

They threw on comfortable sweats and sweatshirts (Sam muttering about how it was about time they did some laundry), and Dean insisted on making what he called Huge Food. He manned the bacon skillet, cooking up an entire package. Sam put together a fat omelet with spinach and cheddar, standing next to Dean at the range, bumping hips with him playfully. Dean liked spinach, the way Sam did it: cooked just enough to wilt but not turn slimy and grey. And with cheese. They ate the entire omelet and half of the bacon.

Then Dean brought down the cereal. "Stage two."

Sam groaned, but accepted a bowl of Captain Crunch. Dean turned on the TV and tossed the remote to Sam. "Whatever you want."

Sam blinked in surprise. It wasn't like Dean to cede control of the remote. "So, I guess you liked that?"

Dean took Sam's cereal bowl from his hands and set it on the coffee table. Suddenly serious, he placed his palms on Sam's face and drew him in for a kiss, all coffee and bacon and sweetness. "That was awesome. You. Are awesome. Like…literally." The reverence on Dean's face made it clear he actually knew the true meaning of his favorite word, and was not using it lightly. Sam blinked, basking in the praise but embarrassed by it.

Sam flipped through the channels and settled on a documentary about the Zulus. Dean didn't even roll his eyes, just sat next to Sam eating his Captain Crunch, one handful at a time sprinkled into the bowl of milk, so it stayed as crisp as possible.

The narrator spoke:…"The Zulus have long suffered from a condition called kwashiorkor. This Ghanaian word literally means 'older brother' and this disease of malnutrition is caused by a previously nourished child no longer receiving adequate sustenance once a new baby arrives. Living in poverty, the mother does not have sufficient food to nurse two children, and the older child is weaned abruptly. Without other food to eat, the older sibling slowly starves. This differentiates kwashiorkor from marasmus, in which the child experiences starvation from birth…"

Dean was startled by the clatter of Sam dropping his spoon into the bowl and setting it down on the coffee table.

Sam stared at Dean, a horrified realization dawning on him.

"Sam?"

"You." Sam's mouth worked, as though reluctant to actually form the words. "You gave it all to me. Didn't you?"

Dean frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Sam leaned forward. "All those times. You gave me all the food we had. You said you weren't hungry." _You go ahead, Sam. I don't feel like eating_. "You said you already ate." "_I ate mine on the way, Sammy. This one's for you_. Sam's eyes filled with tears. "It wasn't true. If there wasn't enough for both of us to eat, you didn't tell me…you just gave it all to me."

Dean tried to play it off. "Sam, it wasn't like that."

"Yes. It was. And…" Sam wiped his face on his sleeve. "And that's why I'm already as tall as you."

"You're not as tall as me—"

"Yes I am." And Sam was. Dean just hadn't been ready to admit that quite yet.

"People are always saying it's weird that I'm so tall already, and I'm gonna be so much taller than you. And that's why… because…" Sam's voice was choked. "Because you didn't get enough to eat when we were kids because you gave it to me."

Dean had nothing. Because there was nothing to say. Because Sam was right.

Sam saw the truth of it in Dean's eyes. His face twisted, and he crumpled into Dean's arms. Sam sobbed like he was being torn apart, like his heart was bursting in his chest.

Dean struggled to hold him, a wet, convulsing mass of limbs and floppy hair. "Sammy. It's ok. I'm fine. Look at me. I'm plenty tall. I'm big and strong. I'm fine."

"You were actually malnourished, Dean! That's not fine. You went hungry. All the time. Because of me."

"Damn straight," Dean said with pride, the admission finally driven out of him. "Damn straight I did. And I'd do it all over again. Sam. Don't you get it? You come first." Dean swallowed hard, trying not to cry himself. "You always came first."

This just made Sam cry harder, contorting in Dean's lap. He sobbed for a long time, unable to form words. Finally, he started to calm enough to speak again. "And I was… god, Dean, I was such a little brat. Always bugging you for more. _'I want more cereal.' 'How come we don't have hamburgers like everyone else?' 'Dean, I want more.'_ " He started to sob again, fists tangled in Dean's sweatshirt. "I was such—"he hiccupped "—a little shit." His sobs amped up, incoherent, so broken, so anguished that Dean's tears flowed finally in sympathetic, involuntary response.

"Sammy…please don't cry. It kills me when you cry."

Sam took a deep breath, trying to force the sobs into submission. For Dean. "You starved. So I wasn't hungry." He raised his hand to Dean's cheek, wiping his tears away with his thumb clumsily, tugging at the skin. "Because you…"

"Because I love you." Dean smiled at Sam, a fresh tear spilling from his eyes.

Sam knew Dean loved him. Dean always took care of him. Stood up to Dad for Sam. He had even killed for Sam. Dean loved him with his hands and mouth and his whole body. Sam thought he knew exactly how much Dean loved him. But now as he looked at Dean, his heart broke as he understood fully for the first time all that those three words really meant.


	56. Prove It

From Denver, Reggie went on instinct and headed east to Dodge City, the famous frontier town of cowboy legend. The boys loved cowboys, so he thought maybe they'd seen that name on the map and gone there. He was bitterly disappointed, though, finding no indication they'd ever been there. He backtracked to Pueblo, cursing his mistake and the precious days it had cost him, and headed back up north checking out the part of the road he'd skipped due to his detour.

Christmas Day found him in a seedy little motel in Raton, feeling lost and discouraged, where he called Marcus just to hear a friendly voice.

Reggie lay on the bed after the call was over, playing back parts of the conversation in his head.

"_You find those boys you were looking for?"_

"_Not yet."_

"_You hurry up and do that, now. Then you come see me. Get that lasagna dinner I promised."_

When he'd wrung all the pleasure out of this promise he could for the time being, he called Bobby to touch base. Bobby was relieved to hear the boys had been spotted a few days ago, and told Reggie that Dean had called him the night before, on Christmas Eve. "I couldn't exactly make him tell me where they were, you understand. Gotta keep him wanting to call me. Trusting me. As much as he does now, at least." Bobby's voice got more gravelly. "Anyway, he said they were holed up licking their wounds. Said they were in a good place, somewhere safe."

"Yeah?"

"He said they couldn't be any safer."

The hair on the back of Reggie's neck went up. "Did he now."

He promised to keep Bobby informed of anything he found out, and hung up the phone. _Couldn't be any safer. _This phrase dug its teeth in, tugged at him.

He busied himself packing up his few belongings, singing a Stones cover song that was suddenly stuck in his head. "…plan to motor west…" He folded his pajamas neatly and put them in the bottom of the bag. The song stuck with him as he brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth, spitting mouthwash into the sink. "..go through St. Louie down to Missouri, Oklahoma City looks oh so purty…you'll see … Amarillo…and Gallup, New Mexico…"

He checked out of the motel, threw his bag in the car, and got in the driver's seat. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the head rest, grey hair spilling over his shoulders.

Something was right there beneath the surface. A clue. An answer, perhaps. He just sat there, allowing that something the time and quiet it needed to emerge.

_Couldn't be any safer._

He tapped his fingers on his knee, the song still needling at him.

His eyelids snapped open, piercing blue eyes bright with realization. Sitting bolt upright, he grabbed the map, traced his finger down the squiggly line from Raton into Texas.

To Amarillo.

"Christ on a crutch," he murmured. Reggie had heard tell of a hunter's Sanctuary somewhere in Amarillo. But the information was hard to come by, kept as sort of a secret of the hunter elite, so that pantywaist hunters scared of their own shadow didn't camp out there and ruin it for everyone. It wasn't fair, perhaps, but there was not enough shelter of this kind to go around, and a place like the Sanctuary was rare; special. Practically sacred. He was sure that Sam and Dean hadn't been told about it. John certainly didn't know about it. Not even Bobby knew about it, or he'd have put the clues together himself.

"Smart, smart boys." He tapped the map with the tip of his finger. "But how in the hell did you find it?"

Reggie pulled a toothpick from the container in his jacket pocket and nestled it between his teeth. Then he put the car into gear and peeled out onto the road, a clear destination finally in mind.

Bobby made up the basic staple breakfast: strong black coffee, bacon and scrambled eggs. Out of habit, he made enough for four, realizing as he stared at the stack of bacon and steaming eggs that it was far too much food for just him and John, all that were in the house now. He heard sounds from upstairs as John took a shower and then thumped around his bedroom. Finally, John emerged, fully dressed. His boots thumped as he strode into the kitchen to get some coffee.

"Well, ain't you all dolled up." Bobby eyed John warily.

John put four slices of bacon onto a plate and sat down with his coffee. "Yeah. I'm heading out."

"Planning on saying where?"

"Lawrence."

Bobby cocked his head. "What…Missouri?"

John nodded, mouth full of bacon.

"Thought she told you everything she knew already. Demon was trying to get to Sam, Mary protected him, demon took her out."

"Been thinking about that." John swallowed a gulp of coffee. "Been thinking a lot about that." John practically inhaled another piece of bacon, as though he were ravenous. "At the time… I wasn't in my right mind. But even then, I wondered if she was holding something back. And now…" Another gulp of coffee. "Bobby? Now I'm sure of it." John waved his hand in the air. "With all that crap out of my system, now I can think straight. For the first time since…"

"Since Mary died." Bobby's face was serious.

"You sure don't mince words."

"It's the truth. And you know it. You were halfway inside that bottle before you even lost Mary. And when she was gone, you crawled in and stayed there."

John's eyes squinted, anger glimmering within them. "I became a damn good hunter, is what I did. The booze didn't hold me back a bit from that."

"But it sure helped make you a piss-poor father."

John shoved his chair away from the table, and stood up. "Robert." His voice made it clear Bobby was on dangerous ground.

"You're not my dad. Don't call me Robert to put the fear of god into me." Bobby stood up too, putting them on an equal level. "And if you claim you want to get your head clear now, don't try and hide from some of the shit that makes you uncomfortable to face up to."

John breathed fast and hard, hands clenched, biting back on his words.

"You said you didn't want to lose your boys. Did you mean it?"

John struggled to even out his breath.

"Did you mean it?"

John bowed his head. "Yeah. I meant it."

"Then you have to face up to everything. It's not just what you—"Bobby fumbled with the words. "—what we did to that boy. I got my own atoning to do for that. But your part of that…that's not the only part you have to make up for. Not by a long shot. And if you're gonna do this, you gotta own all of it." Bobby walked around the table and put his hand on John's shoulder. "I love you like you were my own brother. You know that. But if you want to have a chance in hell at fixing this, man up, sit down and listen."

John eyed Bobby for a long moment, weighing everything. Then he sat down, palms flat on the table.

Bobby sat opposite him. He was silent, choosing his words carefully. Then he spoke. "Sam and Dean are scared to death of you."

John's mouth flew open, words of protest about to spill out, but Bobby held up his hand.

"I said listen."

John bit his lip and listened.

"They're scared of you. Have been since Mary was killed and you changed. You stopped being their father and became…a drill sergeant."

"How do you—" John couldn't bite back the words.

"How do I know? Because they told me!" Bobby yelled. He wiped his hand across his mouth, and sat still until he regained his composure. "Dean was all of seven years old the first time he said something about it. Sat right here with me drinking his chocolate milk. Saying how you yelled at them all the time. He said you acted like a prison guard." Bobby leaned forward, looking John straight in the face. "Said you scared the hell out of him." Bobby closed his eyes at the memory of Dean, such a little boy with such an old look on his face. "Then he said, 'I miss my dad. But we don't have a dad anymore.'"

A tear welled up in John's eye and trickled down his face.

"And Sam. The sweetest little boy on the face of the earth, always looking to you for approval. For love. And all he got was 'Don't disappoint me, Sam. Why can't you do it like your big brother? Why can't you be more like Dean?'" The echo of John's voice resonated in Bobby's, so many times had he said those exact words. "And when you'd drill Dean on lore or Latin, and he'd mess up? What did you say to him? 'Damn it, boy. That was a stupid mistake. Why can't you be smarter like your brother?'"

The wrinkles on Bobby's face stood out, the anger of the memories tightening the muscles of his face. "Sam used to crawl into my lap and ask me what he'd done to make you not love him."

"Oh god," John whispered.

"You never noticed them flinch every time you walked into the room?"

John looked stricken. "Bobby, I—"

"I know. I get it. You're a good man, but you're broken. And you did the best you knew how. You had to get them ready for what's out there, both of them. And you were great at that. They're damn fine hunters. That's something you can be proud of."

John looked up in surprise, eyes wet with tears, at the kindness he had not expected to hear from Bobby.

"But that doesn't let you off the hook. You were hard and angry and barely there. You didn't even keep them properly fed half the time. You raised two fine soldiers. But you forgot they were also your little boys. They needed love from you. Not just discipline."

John listened to the truth, mouth quivering. Finally, he spoke, not able to look Bobby in the eye."All this time…this is what you thought of me. Saw in me. Why didn't you say something?"

"Because if I had, you would have socked me in the jaw and cut me out of your life, and those boys needed me. So I kept my mouth shut and took care of them as best I could, every way I could. I tried to fill in the gaps." Bobby barked out a harsh laugh. "And the sad thing? Even with everything you did, everything you didn't do, they loved you so much. So goddamn much."

John made a wounded sound and buried his head in his arms, shoulders shaking. Bobby came back around the table, knelt at John's side and slung his arm around him. "And they still do." He rubbed his shoulders. "They still do. So you still have a shot. Just…stay sober. Get a hold of your temper. Be real sweet to them. Tell them you love them. And show them. Tell them how proud you are of them. And tell them why. And when they're mad at you and scream at you—and they're going to, and they'll be within their rights to do it—you just take it. You let them. You tell them they're right, and you're sorry."

John cried it out, and Bobby kneeled at the side of his old friend and helped him do it. When John had cried himself dry, Bobby poured out his cold coffee and brought him a fresh, hot cup. "Before any of that, though, you gotta find some way to help Sam."

John took the coffee gratefully. "I will."

"So, you're gonna go make Missouri tell you what she held back all this time?"

John smiled the smile of a hunter not to be trifled with, his bloodshot eyes crinkling at the corners. "That's right."

"Good." Bobby poured himself more coffee as well, scooped out a plateful of warm scrambled eggs and set it in front of John. "Eat hearty then. She's a stubborn old hen."

John shoveled eggs into his mouth, while Bobby drank his coffee. "How are you going to get her to cough it up now?"

John let out a deep breath. "She wants something I have."

Bobby eyed him sidelong.

John burst out laughing, a welcome sound with the heaviness of the atmosphere in the room. "Oh god. Not that."

"No?"

John shook his head.

"You're sure? Because she was one feisty lady, if memory serves."

John shook his head no, vigorously.

Bobby grinned. His smile was genuine and warm. Suddenly, fresh tears appeared in John's eyes.

"I used to say thanks, when I'd come pick them up. But I never really thanked you. If it weren't for you…" John fell silent.

"It was my pleasure."

"It's not easy for me to say this—"

"Hush. You don't have to say a damn thing."

John shook his head. "Actually, I do. Isn't that on a list somewhere? Make a list of the things you fucked up, tell everyone you hurt exactly how you fucked up, say you're sorry, and make it right?"

Bobby laughed. "John Winchester's Four-Step Program." John looked confused and a bit stricken, and Bobby waved him on. "You were saying?"

"So yes, I need to say this." John swallowed hard. "I resented it. I resented you."

Bobby blew out a breath and rubbed his palms on his jeans.

"How good you were with them. How easy and happy they were with you. I was jealous." John's eyes fluttered shut. "So jealous. But the fact is…" John physically squirmed with the discomfort of it, but he forced himself to sit up, look Bobby in the eye, and speak the truth. "The fact is you were as much their dad as I was." He winced, raised a finger, and corrected himself. "More. You were a better father to them than I was."

Bobby's mouth worked, but no sound coming out. Finally, he managed to croak out four words. "Thank you for that."

"And the next time I talk to our boys, I'm going to tell them the same thing."

Bobby's mouth dropped open.

"I have a whole lot to make up for." John's voice was rough. "I don't even know if I can. But I'm going to try." John clenched his coffee cup tight, apprehension tightening his chest, as he prepared to embark upon the hardest thing he'd ever attempted to do in his entire life.

Sam finally pulled away from Dean, eyes bloodshot from crying. He sniffed. "I need to blow my nose." He excused himself and went to the bathroom, where he blew his nose and splashed cold water on his face. Drying his face on a bath towel, he stared at his reflection in the mirror, at his reddened nose and eyes. "Snot-nosed pain-in-the ass," he said softly. "Always a problem." He didn't even whose remembered words he was parroting, John, rendered harsh by the alcohol, Dean, driven to exasperation by his little brother's whining, or Sam's own inner monologue. He wiped his face off again, and went back to the living room.

Dean smiled at Sam, hoping to lighten his mood. "Hey, wanna spar? If you're up to it. It's been a while." It had been quite some time before the boys had sparred, or had done any sort of physical activity, actually. Granted, they were having enough sex for a Nevada cathouse, but as athletic as it was, it wasn't the same thing as running five miles, doing calisthenics, or practice-fighting. "Don't want to lose our edge."

Sam's smile was sad. "Maybe tomorrow. I'm… not feeling up to it right now."

Dean pulled Sam back down on the couch and wrapped his arms around him, part comforting, part playful. "It's ok, Sam. I like taking care of you."

Sam bit back the words. _You've sure had enough practice doing it_.

"And it's all good now, right? So much food here, I'm gonna get fat."

That brought a smile to Sam's face. "I'd like to see that."

Dean looked shocked.

Sam looked away, then back at Dean. "I'd know for sure you got enough to eat."

Dean closed his eyes, feeling keenly now how much this new knowledge was digging at Sam, hurting him. Knowing that Sam was only partially present in the room with him, the rest of him flung backward in time, revisiting countless memories from their childhood, feeling sting after sting as he relived those moments, filling in the blanks.

At least some of them. Sam could never know what Dean had been forced to resort to sometimes to keep food in their mouths and their rooms paid for.

"Ok."

Sam's head snapped back in surprise. "What?"

"If it would make you feel better to fatten me up a little, ok." Dean stretched, and settled his palm on his stomach. "Just a little. Just for a little while. And no making fun of me."

The grin on Sam's face, a dizzy sort of glee mixed with love bordering on worship, made everything worth it. Just like it always did.

"Speaking of food…I'm thinking surf and turf for dinner. Sound good?"

Sam shook the hair out of his eyes, clearing his mind. Dean could practically see him slip back into the here and now. "Yeah. Sure."

"Awesome. Ok. I'm gonna go ask Danny if he knows how to cook lobster tail. When I get back, shower. And then we kick back with a movie, maybe work up an appetite?"

Sam nodded his acquiescence. Dean grinned like a little kid to see Sam normal again, tears all gone away. He kissed him. "Love you. Be right back." He called Danny to make sure the hallway was clear, and then went to the common room to learn how to cook expensive shellfish.

As soon as the door was shut, Sam went into the bathroom and stared at the shower, like a pit full of vipers that he had to get through. He closed his eyes, thinking of all the times Dean had done for him. Taken care of him. All his life. Carried him, protected him, done for him. And how little Sam had ever done for Dean in return. And after Sam grew up, there was the kidnapping and torture, and Dean was stuck with a helpless little baby again. He'd literally carried him, dressed him, fed him. Bathed him. Because Sam couldn't even wash himself without Dean helping him.

"Time to man up." Sam swallowed hard, pushing the welling panic down, stripped off his clothes and turned the shower on. He peeled off the bandage covering the mark Dean had cut into his skin, tracing the D.W. with his fingertip, clenched his teeth and stepped into the spray.

Danny was waiting for him in the common room. "What can I do you for?"

"Lobster."

"Don't have any."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I do. That's the problem. Paul picked it out and I don't know what to do with it."

"Gonna make a nice romantic dinner for your boyfriend, huh?"

Dean flopped onto the couch with a sigh. "Yeah. Because I'm that guy."

"Yeah." Danny fixed Dean with a look that said _I see through the stereotypical man bullshit. _"You are."

Dean looked down quickly, then back up at Danny, his cheeks slightly pink. Danny guffawed. "Ok, what do you have, the whole thing or just the tail?"

"Two tails."

Danny went to the huge library of books and perused it, clicking his tongue against his teeth, scanning through tomes on Creole river demons, Haitian loas, and spectral apparitions in the Paris Catacombs. "Here we go. Found the bible." He pulled out a book with a white dust jacket and a bright red and blue name. "Joy of Cooking." Looking through the index, his finger tapped on an entry. "Lobster, tail, grilled."

He motioned for Dean to join him at the wide kitchen counter, and spread the book open for him. They studied the sketch on how to cut open the soft under-cover of the lobster tails, and how to slightly crack the hard upper shell so the tails would lie flat. "You can skip the marinating it in lemon juice and oil, though. Just salt it and brush it with melted butter, and put a wedge of lemon on the side. Four inches under the broiler, five minutes a side."

Juliane drifted through the room, nose in a book. "Are you boys up to purposes?"

"Gene's making a big old romantic dinner for his fella."

"I can in fact kill a man with my bare hands," Dean reminded Danny.

"So can I," Danny smirked.

Dean kept it to himself that he actually had. Because maybe Danny had too.

Juliane perked up at the mention of romantic dinner. "What are you going to make?"

Dean explained his plan of surf and turf: broiled lobster tails and filet mignon. "Steak, I can do. It's just…" Dean waved his hands helplessly over the book. "Things with shells and claws and…antennae." Juliane listened to Dean and Danny talk about what side dishes to make, if Dean should use garlic or not.

"No garlic. I was always taught no garlic on dates," Dean protested. Danny countered with "Garlic on a date is ok if both of you are eating it, but if it's just one of you, forget it."

Sam stood under the spray, head bowed, water running through his hair and dripping off his chin. _Hand on the back of his skull, plunging his head into the bright orange bucket, sounds of their laughter muffled, a strange tang in the water from whatever had been stored in it before it had been repurposed as a torture device._ He shuddered, throwing his head back, pressing his back flat against the tile at the end of the shower. "Standing in a shower. Tons of air. Look at all this air," Sam told himself, hands clenched tightly. "Just a damn shower." He remembered Dean's idea of the military shower, and turned the water off. He pressed his cheek to the tile and gasped for air. His fingers scrabbled for the shampoo. He lathered his hair quickly, and rather than waste precious seconds grabbing for the soap, simply used the shampoo to wash his body too, running his hands over his skin hastily. He began to shake uncontrollably. "Almost there," he muttered, turning the water back on. The spray hit his chest, and he shuddered. _Chest about to burst, lungs needing to expel the air in them, trying to hold onto it because it was the only air they had. Opening his mouth to scream as the panic flooded him, water pouring into his mouth. Thinking of Dean. Seeing Dean's face, the brilliant green of his eyes, the curve of his mouth. Heart somehow calming, knowing—not fearing, but knowing—he was going to die. Going to leave Dean behind. Then, his head pulled out of the water, allowed to violently expel the oxygen-depleted air in his lungs, to suck in one huge, desperate breath, before being plunged back into the water. _He turned his back to the shower spray, arching neck, canting his head back to rinse his hair without the water touching his face. "Dean went hungry for you. You can damn well do this," he told himself, shaking his fingers through his hair frantically to get all the suds out. But the air was thick with moisture. With water. In his nose. In his mouth.

In his lungs.

Dean wrote out a few things on a piece of paper so he wouldn't forget, and then headed back to the apartment. Inside, he heard the sound of the shower running. He immediately tensed, on full alert. "Sam?" He ran lightly, efficiently, toward the bathroom, and opened the door. "Sam!"

Sam was naked, hunched over the sink, hands braced on the edge, hyperventilating. He looked up at Dean, eyes wide and panicked, his face contorting in what Dean took a second to identify as shame.

"Come here, baby." Dean quickly turned the shower off and pulled Sam, shivering and gasping, into his arms. "Come here. I got you." He flicked a towel down off the rack, and rubbed it softly over Sam's hair, his face, his chest, drying him off as best as he could while holding him up, speaking to him softly, calming him. Sam swayed, dizzy now. Dean cursed, and picked up Sam in his arms like he weighed nothing. He carried him across the hall to the bedroom, and lowered him gently to the bed on his side. He lay behind Sam and reached over him, pulling the comforter over his naked body to warm him up."Feel my chest. Sam. Feel how I'm breathing." He spread the fingers of one hand wide on Sam's chest, pressing him against Dean. Sam kept hyperventilating, shaking, so panicked he couldn't concentrate to follow Dean's breathing pattern. Dean swore again.

"OK, Sam, you trust me?" Sam nodded frantically. Dean reached up and pressed his finger to one nostril, sealing it closed. Sam struggled. "Sammy. You gotta trust me. Let me." His voice was soothing, warm. "You're getting too much air. Just breathe like this." Sam sucked air in through his one open nostril, exhaled, inhaled quickly again. "Slow down, baby boy." Dean nestled behind Sam more closely, pressing his body against him all the way, keeping his right nostril sealed shut. "There you go. Nice and slow." Sam slowly calmed down, breathing slowing enough that Dean put his hand back on Sam's chest. "Breathe with me. Yeah. Just like that. In and out, nice and slow." Sam's breathing finally matched up with Dean's perfectly, and they lay there for a long time, breathing in sync, until Sam was calm and still.

"Why'd you jump the gun like that, Sammy?" Dean kept his voice low, soft. Reassuring. "You know how much I love taking a shower with you."

Sam just sniffled and snuggled against Dean, staring at the far wall.

"Is this because of… the food thing?"

Sam nodded. Dean propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at Sam. Even only able to see his profile, he could read the misery on Sam's face. "I didn't mind," he whispered.

"That's not what… Dean. You always have to take care of me. You always have. And no one ever takes care of you." The anguish in Sam's voice was palpable. "And now… I can't even take a goddamn shower without you. It's…pathetic."

Dean laughed, a soft, chuffing sound. "Wanna know a secret?"

Sam craned to look back at Dean.

"Promise not to tell anyone?"

Sam turned in Dean's arms to look at him.

"I like taking care of you."

Sam rolled his eyes, formulating words of protest. Dean laid his finger on Sam's lips, ever so gently. "I honest to god like it. I don't do it because it's my job, Sammy. I do it because I want to take care of you." Dean brushed his lips over Sam's mouth. "When you let me do things for you…it, uh, makes me happy."

Sam frowned, not sure if he should even try to believe Dean.

"And someone does take care of me, Sammy. You do."

"No, I don't—" Sam began.

"You do. The way you look at me. Like I'm… like I'm the best thing you ever saw in your life. Sam. I need that." Dean exhaled. "You have no idea how bad I need that. I don't need you to wash my clothes or buy me a car or whatever you got in your head that you think you should be doing for me." Dean's voice was hoarse. "I need you to keep looking at me like that."

Sam watched Dean's face carefully. He meant it.

"That's how you take care of me, Sammy. You…love me. Like no one else ever has. No one. I need that. And you take care of me every single day. You always have." Dean brushed the hair back from Sam's forehead. "Of course…it's gotten a little more fun recently."

Sam laughed, and then choked. He coughed until his lungs were clear. "Just a little?"

"Little like the Titanic." Dean looked down at Sam like his chest was going to burst from how much love was welling up inside him. "Like the Grand Canyon. Like…whatever the biggest thing on the planet is."

"Fresh Kills landfill."

Dean stared at Sam in a mixture of admiration and horror. "Seriously?"

"It's the biggest thing on the planet. Biggest man-made thing, anyway."

"You so would know that."

"The largest natural feature is the Great Barrier Reef." Sam looked perfectly serious, like he wasn't teasing Dean at all.

"Well, ok. Being with you is fun the size of the Great Barrier Reef."

"Yeah?" When Sam smiled with all his heart, like he did in that moment, it melted jagged little things inside Dean that had been lodged there, hard and brittle, for years.

"Promise me you won't try that again?"

"What…try not to be a burden on you? No. I won't promise you that."

Dean shook his head. "Promise you won't rob me of the fucking delight it is to take a shower with you and get you all naked and wet."

Sam shivered, but not from anxiety or fear. "You like me all naked and wet?"

"More than just about anything."

Sam threw back the comforter, exposing his naked body to Dean's gaze, and brushed his hand through his wet hair. "Prove it."

And Dean did. He proved it thoroughly, and well.


End file.
